Stay away from her, she’s lovely.
On being the toxic friend, from beginning to end.
I thought it was never going to happen, but I’ve finally gathered my peanuts in a bowl, mushed them to a thick, crunchy paste, and can say that I’m finally ready to spread this peanut butter to the far corners of the slice of toast that is what you’re about to read.
I was recently confronted with the harsh, soul-crushing truth that I was an emotionally abusive human being. What people would commonly do when they are hit with such a difficult reality is either lash out, or find a million excuses to their behaviour. I had none, and went completely silent to the world I was living in. I went into full hibernation, in the middle of summer.
I believe everyone has a toxic side, after all, we’re not all good, nor all bad. I’m just interested in what happens when that toxic side takes over and why you seem to lean into it, unwillingly and unaware?
I’m not going to take you through the years of me being a self-created damsel in distress and all the drama-fueled nonsense I’ve managed to unwillingly stir up in my cauldron. There are too many things involved, and rather than this article being about those things, I’d rather it be about what they’ve taught me. I have come to the not-so-dramatic conclusion that I am a highly sensitive human being. Being extremely sensitive is one thing, but not grasping that, assessing it, and protecting myself and somehow managing to conjure everything anyone says to me into a personal attack, is another.
Whenever I’d be faced with the undying fact that I was not feeling alright because of an exterior happening, instead of talking it out, voicing it openly and being clear-headed about why it had hurt me, I’d lock it up somewhere in the back of my head and when everything became slightly too overwhelming for me to carry on my own, I’d go on a subtly violent rave. This would affect my immediate environment in the unhealthiest of ways.
I’d hide in the bathroom, wailing. I’d throw porcelain figurines across my bedroom (angels, who all lost their heads). I’d scream into my pillow. I’d kick my mattress. I’d turn into that child throwing a tantrum in a shopping aisle, all of this, at the ripe age of 25 and onwards. I’d actively push people away and be highly passive aggressive because I felt like no one was listening. They didn’t love me. They didn’t care. If they did, they would listen. In the passive aggressive reactions, the door slamming was the most recurrent. Would they hear a door slamming, perhaps? For me, the sound of a door slamming was everything that I’d ever wanted to say. From the creaking of it closing, to the slam, to the echo it made in the corridor. To me, it sounded like the story that I wanted to so badly tell.
What I didn’t realize was that I was a victim of myself, by not talking, and by not setting boundaries. I had read so much about the subject of boundaries, because I’m an under-the-radar, self-help junkie, but had never realized that I was lacking them, severely. Whenever I would try to set them (in the poorest of ways), it would be too late and it would come out in a rage-fueled scream which ultimately nobody took seriously. I felt unheard, because nothing, and I mean, zilch, was coming out of my mouth.
In the passive aggressive reactions, the door slamming was the most recurrent. Would they hear a door slamming, perhaps? For me, the sound of a door slamming was everything that I’d ever wanted to say. From the creaking of it closing, to the slam, to the echo it made in the corridor. To me, it sounded like the story that I wanted to so badly tell.
I was a toxic person because of my lack of communication.
For as long as I can remember, I had been the person who was petrified of losing someone I loved, to the point where being truthful about them upsetting me from time to time was worse than sticking a dagger through my chest. I was never, ever, truthful because of my fear of confrontation and abandonment. This lack of communication with the loved one was the iceberg to the Titanic. They wouldn’t see it coming. They’d sail straight into it. I’d be forever chipped but alive, they’d sink and die. If they’d had a chance to see it coming, they’d most likely be alright.
My responsibility as a friend, family member, loved one, even acquaintance, was to communicate. And I largely failed at it out of fear. I can’t tell you the number of times the words “you hurt me” were on my lips, but failed to ever leave them because of a fear of upsetting the other. I didn’t want them to feel bad for hurting me, so I’d not tell them. Instead, I’d slam a door.
Keeping all of this pain inside, repeatedly, made the iceberg into an island. People could now walk all over me and find themselves from time to time falling through a thin, invisible, slice of ice. This lack of communication of my boundaries made me into a slippery slope that the ones I love didn’t have a chance surviving on, because I never pointed out the right shoes.
My responsibility as a friend, family member, loved one, was to communicate. And I largely failed at it out of fear. I can’t tell you the number of times the words “you hurt me” were on my lips, but failed to ever leave them because of a fear of upsetting the other. I didn’t want them to feel bad for hurting me, so I’d not tell them. Instead, I’d slam a door.
Setting boundaries, reinforcing them and honouring them.
I have learnt that boundaries need to be set for a reason, the reason being that if I don’t, I’ll automatically pile up an immense amount of hurt and somewhere down the line, inevitably be toxic. When I come to notice something that is bothering me, ticking me off the wrong way, triggering me, pushing the wrong button, I now communicate it clearly to the other person in a straightforward, polite way. It can sound anything like the following: “I’m trying to help you out, because you asked for help, and the way you’re acting right now is making me feel worthless, and I’m not OK with that”, or “could you please not say the N-Word, it’s racist, demeaning and offensive” or simply “please stop doing that, it upsets me”.
I’ve spent the past 4 months of my life tracking every moment I felt uncomfortable in a conversation. I have been openly asking myself: “In what this person did, what was the triggering moment for me?” and most times I’ll manage to assess exactly what it was and how to tackle it.
Stopping the relentless self-torture and moving on.
I’ve been sat here thinking I was being badly done to all this time, when I was actually the one doing most of, or at least, enabling all the bad. Don’t get me wrong, it takes two to tango, but what happens when you’ve hit the conclusion that most of what went sideways was all down to your own behaviour?
If there’s anything I’ve ever learnt the hard way, it’s that apologies don’t work unless you’re willing to change your ways. What if it’s too late, even for that? I’m glad to have come to the conclusion that it’s never too late to apologize to yourself. I truly, wholeheartedly believe that it’s the first and only step in acknowledging and progressively and slowly overcoming the pain that you have to go through when you realize you’re the angry film director of your own movie.
I have spent the past few months in total and utter grief. I have beaten myself up on the daily, and I can now say, confidently, that I’ve punished myself and others enough. I was wrong, I will do better. I’m going to get busy being the lovely human I really am. To myself first.
