Have you ever had someone come into your life and turn it upside down? Someone who changed who you are? Someone who changed everything?That happened to me when I was in my early 20’s. His name was Jason and we were introduced by a mutual friend. He was unlike anyone I’d ever met. He was an odd blend of intelligence, compassion, free spiritedness, and whimsy. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, was drawn to him. I was no exception.
We were inseparable from the start. We would sit and talk for hours at a time. I told him things I’d never told another person and always expected to see reproach or disgust in his eyes, but it was never there in those early days. He was loving and honest and generous with his heart. I blossomed in the warmth of his friendship. I began to explore a world beyond the small one I had been living – one that was very much defined by my mother’s expectations.
We traveled together – Rome, Venice, Paris, London, the Swiss Alps, Hawaii, Times' Square on New Year’s Eve. He showed me the Oregon coast and all its’ beauty. I introduced him to barbecue and lightning bugs.
We tried to help make each other’s dreams come true. We supported one another through boyfriend troubles (He's gay.) and growing pains and family illness. When his grandmother was in the last stages of Alzheimer’s, and J. and his mother were caring for her at home, I was there changing diapers and helping bathe her. When I found my grandfather dead in his apartment, J. was on a plane from Los Angeles two hours later, flying all night to be with me.
It was us against the world. I could not have asked for a better friend.
But somewhere along the way, he became too important to me. He became the yardstick by which I measured everything about myself. His opinion came to mean more to me than my own. I completely lost "me".
Looking back, there were signs along the way that he struggled with mental health issues. He'd had some awful things happen to him as a child, and they clearly impacted him as an adult. I naively thought that I could help him.
As his beloved grandmother slipped away, J.’s world slowly came apart. Small problems seemed to take on a huge crushing weight. He was unable to pull himself out of the depression he’d fallen into until suddenly things would shift. He was then unbelievably up and happy and productive. He’d be in new relationships, working, spending money, making plans. During those periods, I was always so hopeful that things had finally turned around for him.
Our friendship changed during that time. He was often distant and mean. It was as if he took pleasure in hurting me. I cut him a lot of slack, made excuses for him and his behavior. That was not the loving generous man I’d known for years. I believed that his desperate pain was driving his behavior. It made me want to get closer and try to do whatever I could to help.
Over the course of four years, I loaned him money. A lot of money. $35,000 to be exact. I paid medical bills, car payments, insurance payments, legal bills, and rent. I kept thinking that if I could just get “one more thing” off of his plate that he could pull himself out of his depression. He assured me that he'd pay me back and I had no reason to doubt him. The toll that was taking on my finances was of no consequence to me at that point. I thought it entirely likely that he was going to kill himself and I was committed to doing everything possible to make sure that didn’t happen. No amount of money in the bank would comfort me if my best friend was gone.
At one point he moved in with me, into my 650 square foot studio apartment in a high rise in Atlanta. 650 square feet isn’t much room for one person, let alone two only children who weren’t good at sharing. I was miserable. It seemed like the more I gave, the meaner he was. I was relieved when, after several months, he moved to NYC to live with someone else. Our friendship, if shaky, was at least still intact.
By that time my finances were in ruins. I’d loaned him money that I didn’t have. My savings were gone and my credit card bills were massive. I became more vocal in asking him to begin paying me back. He’d started a small business in NYC and had some money coming in, but never any for me. He spent money on other things, though – a trip to Brazil with a boyfriend, gym memberships, designer clothes. At one point he looked at me and said, “You’re on the list (of people to repay), you’re just not near the top.”
I have never been more hurt. Never.
Soon after I moved back to my hometown . Up to that point it was the best thing I’d ever done. I was able to “find myself” again, to remember who I was, what I thought was important, what I wanted for my life without other people’s opinions (especially J.'s opinions) being factored in.
I knew I had to walk away from him, from all of that pain. I couldn’t continue to be hurt like that. It was killing me. I didn’t deserve it. No matter how good a friend he had once been, he was no longer that person to me.
I sent him an e-mail. I would have preferred to talk to him, but he was backpacking across the country with some newfound friend or boyfriend. I didn’t know how to reach him. And that was that. He sent me a card a few weeks later saying goodbye and letting me know how much I’d meant to him. He also sent $500 with the promise of more to follow. I never heard from him again.
I spent a long time being desperately hurt and angry. I couldn’t believe that someone I’d loved and trusted with my life had chosen to shit all over me. I felt so used. But with time comes healing. I realized that he was free and clear and on with his life and I was still mired in the pain of the past. So month by month I let it go. I surrounded myself with wonderful people who loved me and I got on with the business of living. I got my finances in order. I met my husband and fell in love.
But oh, the lessons I learned from my relationship with J..
I realized that true friendship, like true love, never requires you to risk your own well being for the sake of another.
Never again will I give someone else the power to define who I am, or make them the center of my life in an effort to not live my own.
I realize now that I can’t love someone enough to fix their life. They have to want it for themselves, or not.
I have finally learned to trust myself, my instincts, and my heart. It’s a good heart.
Never again will I loan money to someone I love. If I can afford to give it, I will. Otherwise I will not.
I understand that I teach others how to treat me and that to tolerate disrespect or unkindness in any form is simply an invitation for more of the same.
I am careful to maintain healthy boundaries in my relationships now. I want to be there to support the people I love, but my well-being now comes first. It has made me a much healthier person.
I realize now that there are times when I’ve simply given all I have to give and that there’s nothing left to do but walk away.
I’ve learned how very strong I am. I can survive just about anything. I never knew that.
Those lessons and many others have made it possible for me to have the life I have now. I am a better person, wife, daughter, and friend – a happier person for having known him. It took me a LONG time to get past my anger and realize that.
So about a year ago I sent him an e-mail. It was not an effort to rekindle our friendship. That was the last thing I wanted. I simply needed to thank him for all he’d contributed to my life, and to take responsibility for my part in the way our friendship had unfolded. I told him that I couldn't believe that he'd never made an effort to return my money to me, and that I’d always hope to one day open our mailbox and find a check from him.
There was no response. I knew there wouldn’t be, and was totally fine with that. I’d said my peace and that’s all that I’d wanted to accomplish. It was over for me, until I started looking into infertility treatments.
I read in several places that the average IF couple spends $35,000 to have a child.
$35,000.
Ironic, huh?
My husband makes a good living and takes wonderful care of me, but we don’t have $35,000 laying around in an “Underachieving Ovaries Fund”. I don’t know many people who do. So in thinking about ways to fund our ART adventures, I vowed that if we weren’t able to make a baby, it wouldn't be from a lack of money. I was going to do everything possible to get the money we’d need. I didn’t want to look back in five years and regret not having pulled out all the stops now.
One of those “stops” was an e-mail to J. about a month ago.
I told him in very simple terms that O & I were unable to have a baby without going through IF treatments and that they were horribly expensive. I said that if my friendship or my helping him out financially ever meant a thing to him, to please repay my money - that I’d never needed it more than I do now.
Of course, there was no response. It’s ridiculous but there was a tiny part of me that thought he’d make an effort – that when he learned WHY I needed my money back, he would at least try. He knows that having a baby is my very dearest wish.
There is no doubt about it now. The sweet kind boy I met so many years ago is gone, replaced by someone I don’t know – someone I don’t care to know. I hope he remembers for the rest of his life what he did to me. I hope it keeps him awake at night.
To spend anytime beyond that being angry or bitter just hurts me. I have his ss# and the IOU he signed. I suppose I could find him and sue him, but that seems like throwing good money after bad. I’ve got much more important things to focus on - my loving husband, the wonderful life we’ve created for ourselves, our friends and family, and our efforts to become parents.
But just in case Jason Hansen ever happens to stumble onto this blog and read my words, I would say one final thing to him . . .
You have 35,000 reasons to be ashamed of yourself. What a sorry excuse for a human being you turned out to be.
