The word ‘abuse’ carries similar connotations for many people, most of whom likely imagine horrific domestic situations; abuse between lovers, married couples, parents and children.
Up until a few years ago, when I met my former friend Laura*, there’s a good chance I would have said the same thing. However, our friendship would end up isolating me from the rest of my peers – it held me down, made me feel despised and constantly want to lash out.
It started simply enough, on my first day of university.
I was recovering from crippling social anxiety that had gripped me all throughout college and saw university as a fresh start. I didn’t want to be known and scorned as ‘the quiet girl’ anymore. I wanted to find a good group of friends and find myself.
Laura was naturally charismatic and outgoing, with an infectious attitude that made me want to explore a similar side to myself. The first month of our friendship was filled with laughter, self-deprecating jokes and gags at other people’s expense. Looking back, that was one of the very first red flags I missed.
I was still only a teenager, but I knew in my heart that I didn’t want to laugh at other people’s shortcomings. It was gradually alienating me from the rest of our peers, most of whom were met by a cold disposition when trying to speak to our group.
Laura made it clear that they would never be welcome into our circle of friends, leaving me with no one else to rely on.
The second red flag was a subtle transition, as the jokes about my social awkwardness and cringey Tinder dates became increasingly sinister.
I didn’t find her jibes about my acne scarring or breast size funny, either. And even though these conversations centred around me, I felt like an outsider.
Laura told me I was ‘flat’ and that my face was so ‘cratered’ that I’d never be able to find a boyfriend. Each time this occurred, I felt my spirit being ground further down.
But knowing how sensitive she was about her own physical appearance, I never retorted.
Even if I wanted to join in on the ‘banter’ and make fun of her, it was clear that I wasn’t allowed to. Jokes about me were fine; I was conventionally attractive, so I ‘deserved’ them. Gags about Laura were taboo, banned in our circle of friends.
Towards the end of our friendship, I didn’t even want to spend time with her – but I felt like I had to.
I also spent half the time apologising to her – about everything.
If I was late to meet Laura or if I had reasons for not being able to see her, I would receive messages telling me this behaviour was not OK, and that if I wanted to keep being friends with her I’d have to conform to her rules.
Most days I’d sit at home crying until my eyes were red raw, before composing myself, slapping on my makeup and plastering a strained smile across my face. After all, much to my shame, we were the ‘mean girls’ of uni – everyone hated us, who else would bother to take me in?
I didn’t feel like I could talk to anyone about it; having struggled with friendships all throughout sixth form, I feared I’d be labelled the problem.
Laura’s aim was to make me feel like a liar, to isolate me, to make me feel like I was ‘deserving’ of this treatment; and that’s exactly how I felt
After a while, my boyfriend noticed changes in my personality. My self-confidence had taken a tumble and I would always reject his compliments in light of how I saw myself. He told me that my self-hatred was obvious and that the way my friend treated me wasn’t normal.
With his support, I finally told Laura that she didn’t feel like my friend anymore.
She saw this as a treacherous move and her presence grew increasingly anxiety-inducing; she started posting nasty comments on my Instagram posts and kept texting me about how I’d ‘betrayed’ her. So, I blocked her on every platform.
What followed was a one-sided spin war in an attempt to coerce our peers into joining her side. I was told by multiple people that she ranted on Snapchat about how I was just a ‘bitch’, who used her anxiety as an excuse to be a bad friend.
Laura’s aim was to make me feel like a liar, to isolate me, to make me feel like I was ‘deserving’ of this treatment; and that’s exactly how I felt.
The phrase platonic abuse is rarely spoken, even in today’s culture of openness about mental illness.
Emotional and verbal assault is often tolerated within friendships under the guise of ‘banter’ or a dark sense of humour. But for me, ‘it’s only banter’ became a mantra that I would repeat to myself every night before falling asleep.
Conversations surrounding platonic abuse; whether emotional, verbal or physical, need to be opened up. We know that 48.4 per cent of women, and 48.8 per cent of men will experience emotional abuse in at least one romantic relationship during their lifetime.
It is almost impossible, however, to find statistics on platonic abuse and how this may impact victims during and after these friendships.
The discourse surrounding platonic abuse should also extend to mutual friends. While everyone else in our circle of friends knew it was going on; no one spoke up for me as the victim. This needs to change.
Now, I’m happily blossoming with a new group of friends who do everything in their power to uplift me, and I do the same for them.
I still see Laura around on occasion, but it doesn’t affect me anymore. And despite what happened, I hope that she has found her peace from the situation, too.
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source https://metro.co.uk/2020/02/28/emotionally-abused-best-friend-nowhere-turn-12271497/
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