Family
The Hard Truth About Being Ghosted (or Ghosting)
Sometimes it hurts, sometimes it’s healing.
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The older I get, the more important my friends become. Whether I first met someone in kindergarten, college or even a decade ago, I treasure these relationships. I give them care and attention because I want them to last a lifetime. Ghosting — having someone abruptly vanish without explanation — didn’t apply to me. And it was certainly something I would never do to a friend because it is cruel, thoughtless and selfish.
Or so I thought.
First, I was the one ghosted. Anna (not her real name) and I saw each other every day at work and immediately bonded. We both had the same sense of wacky humor, the same dislike of our idiot boss and clueless co-workers. But then, as the years went by, we changed jobs, we married and had kids, and we both got chaotically busy trying to juggle our lives. Seeing each other every day began to turn into monthly visits, and then every two months.
Then not at all.
“I feel terrible about not seeing you,” I told her, inviting her to lunch. But she kept sending her regrets without reason, and the distance between us grew. We had always talked about everything, from our kids to our husbands, so surely we could talk about this new distance. “Did I do something wrong?” I texted her. “Tell me so I can fix it, so I can apologize and bring us back to normal. I miss you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she texted back. “Nothing’s wrong at all. Just busy. With family stuff and work.” Then the radio silence came back, even after I emailed again. I called and left friendly messages, and then one message that said it all: “Please. Can we talk? I need to talk.”
It took me another month to realize I’d been ghosted, and not really knowing what was wrong felt like not just a door slamming shut, but like being locked out. I still have no idea what happened, though I knew Anna well enough to know she surely must have a reason, which made it hard for me to let go. Or to change. I vowed that if I ever ghosted anyone myself, I would make sure, in as gentle a way as possible, that they understood why, because then, they could move on, too.
But then, a year later, I became the ghoster. And that caused me a different sort of pain.
My friend Angie (also not her real name) saved my life in a lot of ways. I met her when I had first moved to Manhattan, way back in the early 1980s. I was raw from a divorce from a man I never should have married, and dealing with my mother, who not only wanted to live through me but also insisted on engineering that life. While I yearned for her love, the criticisms made me crazy.
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Angie was older than I was, a writer, too. I thought her knowledge about life was superior to my own, and if I just listened to her, I could become a stronger person, a better writer, too. Trust me, she often said. I promise you, if you listen, things will be better.
So, I did, and for a while, they were. She advised me on how to talk to my agent and how to act when I made a huge mistake at my job. She was on my side! I ignored warning signs like her telling me that since we were so alike, we could write each other’s novels, and when she introduced herself to strangers as the editor of my work, I was sure I had misheard and let it go.
But gradually, as I grew more independent, I began to chafe at Angie’s control, especially when her loving words would abruptly switch to sharp criticism. It all began to feel a little uncomfortably familiar… as if she were my mom. That was a script I wanted to rewrite, not follow. But Angie persisted. I began to notice that her advice didn’t seem sound to me anymore, though she insisted that it was. I didn’t want to share my writing pages with her anymore because not only were the critiques sometimes shockingly nasty, but her suggestions were often just plain wrong.
Still, I would never have ghosted her, not ever, because of our years of cherished friendship. So, I tried to talk with her about how she was a little too much like my mom. She listened, told me she was sorry and that she’d be more watchful of her remarks — and then, almost casually, mentioned she was sure I’d never, ever make it as a writer. “I’m being a good, loving friend,” she said.
Stunned, I gave her another chance, and then another, and I was always shocked when the nasty-remarks-clothed-in-love continued. To protect myself, I stepped away.
But maybe it’s me who’s haunted by this ghosting business, because I can’t forget the great times we had, the ways we helped one another. Maybe the shared paths we were on just came to a fork. Maybe it’s just that people change. Still, I’ll never give up the ghost in remembering the good parts.
Have any of you ever been ghosted? Let us know in the comments below.
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