Dear You,
There are friendships that shape you gently and then there are friendships that take a red highlighter to your life, rearrange your priorities and convince you that postponing a doctoral thesis for someone else’s recurring existential emergency is not only normal but also noble. You were impressive in your role given that doctoral theses are famously written in blood, sweat, crying spells, caffeine and social isolation and yet, somehow you still ranked higher than my research and research supervisor for a while.
You entered my life not as a friend but as a situation; a never-ending draft that required constant revisions, late night consultations, emotional citations backed by infinite patience. All of these I provided with the optimism of someone who genuinely believed that emotional labour would eventually be reciprocated rather than absorbed like moisture by silica gel or activated charcoal.
You came with problems and feelings that needed unpacking and translating and crises that apparently required my immediate availability regardless of deadlines, intellectual commitments or basic circadian rhythms. And I, responded with empathy so consistent that your nervous system probably thought I was a feature and not a person.
At some point you even outsourced the emotional maintenance to your mother, who called me for moral support as if I were a part of the extended family or even better, an unpaid counsellor assigned at birth. I took those calls too because by all accounts, my inability to say no was deeply committed to the role.
What fascinates me now is not that I showed up but that I showed up with sincerity and curiosity and also with the misplaced belief that proximity to pain equalled intimacy. It amazes me today thinking that I believed that if I stayed available long enough, I would eventually be included in the parts of your life that were not on fire.
Reader, let me tell you what happens when you give someone unlimited access to your emotional bandwidth while they ration joy like a luxury product reserved for other audiences.
They get engaged and you find out through social media, after meeting them a week earlier postponing your own work and keeping family on hold, all the while listening and believing.
I want to pause here for dramatic effect. Nothing says emotional clarity like realising that you were close enough to be an emergency contact but not close enough to receive a direct invitation to happy moments. That was the exact moment the illusion shattered, not explosively but with the soft, precise sound of something snapping into focus. I now know how the decibel of “coming back to senses” feels in the head since it finally became obvious that I was never a participant in your life, I was infrastructure.
In an effort that deserves both applause and psychological case study, I saved your contact under the name “Not Important for Thesis”, which remains one of the most self-aware acts of self-preservation I have ever performed because nothing motivates boundaries like the realisation that someone else’s emotional chaos is actively interfering with your contribution to human knowledge.
You see, the issue was never that you were struggling. The issue was that while your struggles were always urgent, mine were always optional; your growth was a process, mine was an inconvenience and while your milestones were private and sacred, mine were negotiable. I must appreciate your supremacy in selective intimacy, deeply expressive when you needed support and mysteriously unavailable when celebration required inclusion. The imbalance was so consistent, it should have been measurable with instruments.
I do not consider you as an evil person, although I was not far from seeking help of an exorcist to bring me back to my senses because I occasionally felt possessed by you. I think you were comfortable. Comfort is far more dangerous as it thrives quietly on the labour of others while calling itself connection (biologically speaking, a parasite).
The good news is that I am no longer confused. I gained the enlightenment that intensity is not closeness and availability is not synonymous with friendship. I no longer postpone my life for people who treat my presence like a utility service.
In due course I finished my thesis and it turns out ideas flourish remarkably well when they are not constantly interrupted by someone’s emotional meltdowns.
If this letter feels sharp that is because coherence often is. And if it feels funny, that is because sometimes the only dignified response to having profoundly taken for granted is to laugh with full awareness of acceptable behaviours.
I genuinely wish you well, preferably with a support system that charges by the hour. As for me, I am busy now, and finally, this is not a metaphor.
With restored priorities,
Formerly, your unpaid trauma sponge, disguised as best friend.
By Bahnika Sen
Bahnika Sen is a trader, fitness expert, and writer. She can be contacted at: bahnika23@gmail.com
