Maame

by Jessica George

I realized then that our friendships were not based on loyalty or love but convenience and proximity. I went from a close group of seven to one. Nia.

I almost tell her that fun doesn’t equate to happiness; at the very least, it lends you happiness and I want to know how to keep it. I’ve googled “How to be happy”; I’ve taken walks in the park and written long gratitude lists; I’m consuming more fruits and vegetables and going to bed early; I’ve given out compliments and practiced mindful breathing. I have tried to fix myself.

For some reason, at night, when you’re meant to be sleeping, your brain wants answers to everything.

Still, that doesn’t change the fact that although I didn’t think I’d be rich, I expected to be happy and the failure to do so has left me gasping for air most of the day.

“He’s fine,” she says. “He told me last night that he wanted to try anal, so we did.” Avi Jeeto, ladies and gentlemen. Avi’s half English, half Indian, has a dark bob that curls at its ends and is a serial oversharer.

I head off to church a couple of hours later and Shu calls me on the way. Which is unusual because Shu only accepts text messages and considers spontaneous phone calls a personal attack.

Me

I already know I can’t explain it in a way Mum will find acceptable. To her, if my reasoning isn’t logical, then it is false.

I online-shop for the rest of the morning, picking things I’d never wear and spending money I usually wouldn’t because I can reinvent myself here. Jo and Cam don’t know me and I can be whoever I want to be. So … who do I want to be?

It’s like they say, one man’s whore is another woman’s inspiration.

I’ve never had a three-course meal before. I’ve eaten three different things in a row, but I don’t think that’s the same thing.

🤣

“We grew apart,” he says. “It took me a while to accept that, sometimes, nothing is wrong.” He looks calm as he says it, maybe a little sad even. “Growing up and apart—it can happen.”

There’s only a wrong way to have sex when dating and that’s being pressured into it. The only “rule” you need to stick to is having sex when you want to.

💯

“I get what everyone’s talking about now,” I say quietly. “Move out, Maddie. Live a little, Maddie. I never wanted to admit it, but I’m so glad to be out of the house and living my life. I hope that doesn’t make me a bad person. I almost can’t blame James for abandoning me, because there’s just so much out there, you know? I have a boyfriend, a better job, and I’m going on holiday with new friends. I don’t cry at night anymore.” I hold my arms out. “I’m free.”

It’s an ordinary week within the most extraordinary circumstances because apparently—and this is what everyone fails to mention about the grieving process—I still have to live.

I chalk it up to yet another thing schools fail to teach us: how to do your taxes, how to buy a property, and how to tell when you’re being taken for a fool.

I feel silly for asking, but here goes: “What does love feel like?” “Sunshine and rainbows?” Nia offers. “She’s not seven,” Shu says. “It’s not always about what it feels like, Mads, because sometimes it feels pointless. It’s about what love is. Which is trust, commitment, empathy, and respect. It means really giving a shit about the other person.”

I was eleven, maybe twelve, and I opened the fridge for something to drink. I noticed Dad’s opened beer beside the milk and lifted it out. Dad, standing at the stove, looked over his shoulder, as I took a sip. He was going to tell me off, but before he could, I was spitting it out into the sink. Dad chuckled. “Now you know. Don’t waste my beer again, eh?” I rub my eyes hard because I’d never recalled that memory until today.

I couldn’t believe children told their parents to shut up and survived to tell the tale.

I cut the conversation off there because the way I see it, apologies only benefit the beggar. They get a clear conscience, and I get a sequence of hollow words incapable of changing anything.

I bounce my head to the music, attempt high notes, shake my shoulders and consider the possibility that people will think I’m weird. I revel in the fact that I don’t care if they do—secretly, they wish they were as free as I am! I wonder if I’m actually happy or just momentarily distracted. Maybe the latter is what happiness looks like for me now.

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. “The fact that it did help is what matters.” She pushes her mouth to one side. “We all grieve in different ways, you know?” she adds. “Losing someone is universal, but I think that’s about it, really. The rest is our own thing.”

Ultimately, you must either accept a person for who they are, how they behave, how they express themselves emotionally, and find a healthy way to live with them, or let them go entirely. Either way, you must release yourself from that responsibility.”

“Good. I ask if you think you’re well-loved because it’s easy to conflate being well-liked with being well-loved. There’s often a misconception that to be well-loved, the love has to come from multiple sources, when truthfully, one or two people can love you with the strength of ten. Do you have people in your life who love you with the strength of many?”