Everyone has that one friend who knew you Before. Before you knew what you wanted out of life. Before you tripped over the pebbles of immature mistakes. Before you ran into the sharp jagged boulder obstacles of Adulthood. Before everything. If you’re incredibly fortuitous, you’ll have two friends like that. But usually one is enough. And for me, that is Joe.

My first high school boyfriend, he Saw me. Maybe because he recognized the same in himself. He knew my mom was a cokehead. Pretended he didn’t. I knew he knew. And was glad for the feigned ignorance. We each had our own dysfunctional backgrounds. We both managed to be the crazy class clowns despite that or maybe because of that. We had already broken up when I first started running away. We had remained friends though and he hid me in his basement so I wouldn’t have to sleep on the streets. Throughout the years, every so often we’d reconnect, catch up. Always a brief respite from the world and problems around us. We were both the family and life-in-general fuck-ups so sharing the pain and loneliness was easy, comforting. A few days ago, after 3 years of zero communication, I sent a short but familiar message.

Tell me everything is going to be okay.

“Everything is going to be fine.” The response came seconds later.

“You alright?”

I’m all kinds of fucked up. But thanks.

“Well I’m here for you.”

Thank you.

And that was all I needed for that day. Just knowing that there was still someone I knew who knew me. Because they knew themselves. I pondered how the most compassion comes from those who have been most persecuted. The least judgment from those who have been repeatedly judged. I was overcome with the sadness of it all.

Then today…

“Hey, just checking in on you. How are you doing?”

Ever have one of those months where there’s an ugliness inside of you, devouring everything which was once good? A simmering rage, a gnawing pain from which there seems to be no end?

“Several. But you got to be easy on yourself. You’ve got this. You’re not alone.”

Oh, Joe. If it were only that simple. I really fucked up.

“Okay. How bad did you fuck up?”

Cheated on my husband bad. Separated for the last two months bad.

“Well, shit.”

Yeah. Told you. Big fuck up.

“I ghosted someone who I was in a long term relationship with. It’s been 2 years now. I still cry about it. I have not forgiven myself. Not that it compares with what you’re going through, but I’m familiar with the ugly feeling inside.”

It’s in the same vein. Hurting someone you cared about. Breaking their heart. It’s a very unforgiving self-loathing.

“There is nothing new under the sun… we haven’t done anything that hasn’t been done before. We should show some restraint with how hard we are on ourselves. We are human. If the punishment doesn’t lead to a better self, then it is the wrong punishment. I forgive you. And I hope you make amends the best way you know how and can.”

Thank you for being my friend, Joe.

“Thank you for being my friend.”

It doesn’t erase what I did. Nothing ever will. It doesn’t negate the years of loneliness which led to my betrayal. It doesn’t magically fix everything. I am not being showered with rainbows barfed up by unicorns. But in times like these, when we hate ourselves, when we find no trace of goodness left in our souls, when we contemplate the world being a better place without us in it, having someone like Joe in your life is the smallest and biggest of blessings.

I have stumbled drastically. And before me, his own knees scraped and bloody, he is the outstretched arm offering a hand up. Thank you, Joe.