Giving up the Ghosts
I’ve spent the better part of today trying to figure out why the 4th of May was lodged in my head, what plans or commitments I had forgotten. Turns out it was the deadline for my undergrad dissertation, five years ago. Time and space collapsed, and somewhere in the ether there is a 22-year-old Eliza, clicking “submit assignment” at 5:38am.
It’s funny, the way feelings carry. How anxiety never quite leaves the body even when it’s gone from our minds. I wonder how much more of past Eliza’s stress I still carry. I imagine it’s a lot. The past stopped haunting me as soon as I built a life worth living in the present. As with most of my problems, it was solved by London and lesbianism. The big questions that kept me up at night in Glasgow have answered themselves, but there are still cracks where the ghosts creep in. As I learn to inhabit this new version of myself, I am called to face them. Most of these ghosts seem silly now, poltergeists formed from other people’s lack of emotional maturity. But they cut me deep at the time, and they still shape the way I relate to people.
Many moons ago, I had a huge crush on a friend. I learnt how to be human from reading YA novels, so you can imagine how badly that went! In our third year of university, he went to study abroad. We would talk on the phone sometimes, and I frequently told him how much I missed him. He never said it back. One time I asked him if he missed me at all, and he said “I actively don’t think about it”. It was one comment in a long, long line of comments that caused psychological damage to my 21-year-old self. He doesn’t cross my mind much these days, we haven’t spoken in 5 years. But recently the memory crept back in, worming its way in-between my insecurities. I used to be a verbally affectionate person. The instinct is still there, buried deep down. My “I love you”s are always on the tip of my tongue, just out of reach. But I’m no longer free with my affection. I keep it on a leash, reining it in before it comes back to bite me. Now when I type an “I miss you” text I feel like throwing my phone across the room, and/or retching. It’s too vulnerable, too real, too ripe for rejection.
I have had two big friendship breakups in my life. Both between the ages of 19-22, both with men, both situations that could definitely have been avoided if I had realised I was a lesbian before the age of 18. But alas, if I undid that character development I wouldn’t be where I am now. I can look back on my 18-22-year-old self and see every flaw I had. I was a giant ball of emotions, I had low self-esteem, I wasn’t great with setting my own boundaries or understanding those implicitly set by others. I also desperately sought male validation, because I believed I would only be worthy if men found me attractive. Men did not find me attractive; I was tall and “intimidating” and vaguely off-putting.
I learnt everything I know about grief from the ending of these two friendships. I also learnt to suppress my naturally affectionate side, because I saw that being affectionate is how people take advantage of you, and how you get hurt. I’m old enough to see it all clearly now, to see the nuance in both situations and understand where I went wrong and where they did. I have context now that I didn’t at the time, particularly regarding my own identity. But I can’t go back and tell my younger self that everything will make sense one day, so instead I have to sift through all her layers of pain, unpack each damaging belief and course-correct it.
I didn’t realise how many negative beliefs around friendship I was still holding onto. As I said, I do not think about these people often. I have strong, healthy friendships that have lasted for almost a decade, and I do not dwell on people who hurt me in the distant past. But this year, as I’ve made new friends, my old insecurities have crept in. Fear of being too much, to needy, too human. Every time I go to text someone, or invite them for coffee, or give them a hug, there is a voice in my head telling me that I am doing something wrong, that nobody really wants this from me. Those voices are trying to protect me, because my brain hasn’t caught on to the fact that maybe 25-30-year-olds aren’t going to cause me the same emotional damage as 19-year-old boys.
I am surrounded by good people. I am surrounded by emotionally intelligent, mature people. It still takes me by surprise, how gentle they are with me. This week my brain has been doing this thing where it shuts down whilst I’m talking. I lose the ability to form words mid-sentence, and my mind is just darkness, a TV screen stuck on static. I saw a friend for the first time in six weeks, and I was so excited to see her, yet as soon as I tried to talk to her, I couldn’t find the words. I looked up into her eyes and my mind went blank and I couldn’t articulate a single thought. I am not the most eloquent communicator. I used to have a friend who told me I “talk in circles” and “use a lot of words without saying anything meaningful” – another comment from years ago that continues to haunt me.
My friend listened patiently while I spent two minutes trying to answer a simple question, and it healed something inside me. I didn’t realise just how much I have ached for someone to be patient with me. I can’t express it in words, the gratitude I feel when someone sees what I need and gives it to me so freely. All I have is the softness of my gaze and the warmth of affection blossoming in my chest. Perhaps it’s a tad pathetic to be enamoured with basic human kindness, but every time someone is truly decent towards me, it catches me off guard.
At this point in my life, I see the value in friendships that come from proximity. Some connections come quickly, where you click instantly or share a sense of humour. Other friendships come from spending a disproportionate amount of time in the same room as someone, and eventually they stop being a stranger. You notice the details of them, pick up on the subtle changes in their moods, memorise their routines. I don’t think those kinds of friendships are any less of a choice. It is a choice to care about people, it’s a choice to open up to them, a choice to let them see you. As PhD students, we all chose a challenging life path. We all share a certain kind of madness. And in our proximity, we see each other’s bad days and breakdowns, we see all the life struggles that eclipse the academic struggles. We understand a part of each other because it exists within ourselves. I am so grateful for that proximity, I am so grateful to bear witness to my friends’ bad days, I am so grateful for the grace we afford each other when we’re tired and messy and sick of it all. I am grateful to choose and be chosen.
When I was younger, I had friends who would disappear whenever they were going through something, who would ghost me instead of opening up to me. Or worse, actively tell me I was annoying for asking how they were. So I learnt to let them disappear, to stop trying to be there for them. Unlearning these patterns feels like pulling teeth. I have so much shame around caring for people more than they care about me, and I have to repeatedly drill it into my head that there is nothing wrong with trying to be a good friend. I am so tired of carrying around shame that people embedded in me when I was 20. When I peel back all the layers of repression, my natural energy is all love. I am caring and empathetic and I notice the tiniest details of people. I know how to be a good friend.
I reframe the narrative. I be the friend to others that I would want them to be to me. I push through my anxiety because it’s not about me. I want to feel cared for, so I show other people how much I care about them.
The beautiful thing about being 27 and going through a difficult time is that I am all out of fucks to give when it comes to social norms. Because honestly, who cares? Who cares if people know I really like them and want to be better friends with them? I am an adult, it’s okay to be seen trying. Who cares if I don’t always know the right words to say? Who cares if I am human and flawed and am figuring this all out as I go along? We are all in the same boat. If there is one thing I’ve learnt in the first 7 months of my PhD it’s that everyone is having a rough time, everyone is exhausted, and everyone feels isolated. So I am learning to be the person that I needed in my darkest times.
It’s easier said than done. I am still scared. My hands are shaking, but I’m reaching out nonetheless.