Karen.

Karen’s mom had several weiner dogs – or, if you’re all fancy, dachshunds. A redhaired one, a long-haired one, a black one. I believe one was named “Heidi”. That’s the end of my recollection of these dogs, other than the fact that even then – as a kid – I found them unspeakably hilarious. They’re the best form of Prozac ever invented.

This is a very, very long story. But I think I just saved myself about 400 therapy sessions.

Karen and I were friends (weiner dogs aside) from near birth – playing in the same preschool, riding the school bus to elementary school together, even sharing a crush on the same grade 5 boys. In sixth grade, however, her parents divorced and Karen and her brother moved with their mother to live in a town about 40 minutes away from where we grew up. Not a huge distance, but for ten year olds it was like she moved to another country. We cried and wailed and wrote letters and .. eventually made new friends as ten year olds do.

When grade nine rolled around, I found myself attending high school in the same city Karen was living in and, sure enough, within a few days of starting classes I ran into her in the hallway. There was much shrieking and hugging and girly giggling as we reaquainted ourselves. Three years apart is a very long time when you’re a kid – you go from wondering about periods and whispering about boys to making out at school dances and having long discussions about blowjobs. In truth, when we re-met, we were very different people. Karen had suffered through moving, divorce and parental fighting. I had, well, just grown up a bit. She introduced me (a shy, terribly socially inept girl) to her fabulous new friends – Tara and Mel in particular -and the four of us settled into a reasonably comfortable friendship. It was nice to have these “city girls” to show me the way, save me a seat at lunch and teach me how to apply eyeliner without stabbing my eyeballs out.

Over time, I grew closer to Tara – we had a lot in common (and she had gorgeous red hair that she let me brush and braid and otherwise fuss with). We had sleepovers at her Dad’s house, playing Guns N Roses “Anything Goes” over and over, trying to understand all the not-very-subtle sexual lyrics. She was the first person to show me “good porn” on her Dad’s VCR, while he was out with his girlfriend one evening. We had nicknames for each other and little inside-jokes, and of course (as an adult) it made perfect sense for Karen to become jealous as time went by. As I saw it, though, Karen and I just didn’t have anything in common anymore. No hard feelings, just the way the world works.

Karen, however, wasn’t happy about my new-found relationship with Tara – feeling left out, maybe, or feeling like I had betrayed her by befriending HER friend. Between classes, one day, she confronted me in the hallway – telling me that she didn’t want me to be friends with Tara anymore, that I was HER friend. I looked her in the eye – with no malice or anger – and said, quite calmly, “Then I don’t think you and I should be friends anymore. I mean, we don’t have anything in common, really.”

I can vividly remember the look on her face, and the sudden feeling in my gut of, “Oh fuck.”

She grew red in the face, and leaned closer. Karen was not a tiny person – she was pudgy as a kid, but grew into plain-ol’ chubby when high school rolled around – and I was, well, average. She leaned in, put her face up to mine, and said, “I’m going to fucking kill you.” I stepped back, trembling and shaking and trying to figure out what the best move would be.

“But, I.. we .. I don’t think we have anything in common. And I want to make new friends, too, and you’re getting mad about that.”

She turned, quickly, and stormed away. I grabbed my books and ran to class, with my heart pounding like mad. I felt somewhat relieved, though, having been honest with her. Relieved, that is, until I saw my locker door when I returned to pick up my coat before catching the bus home. Written in big black magic-marker letters was some sort of threat (which I strangely don’t remember) and I turned to see her standing a few feet away. She caught my eye, and shouted, “I’m going to kick your ass when we get outside.” She walked out the door.

Being a rural kid, I had to wait for a school bus to arrive in order to go home. At times, the wait between the end of class and my bus arriving was more than 30 minutes. There was no vantage point from inside the school from which to wait and watch, and I was forced to go out and stand at the front of the building where all the other students milled around. I crept out the door, relieved that Karen was nowhere in sight. Like the mighty ninja, however, she appeared suddenly at my side and put her face right next to mine. “Don’t want to be my friend anymore? FUCK YOU.”

I am an only child. My sole experience with hitting someone, or fighting in general, was purely academic at that point. I watched WWF on occasion. I read books. I watched television. I had never, in my life, thrown a punch. So when she grabbed my hair, I grabbed hers. We clung for a moment – long enough to garner the attention of every other kid in the school. They crowded around us, and started the “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” chant. I wanted to die. Instead, I clutched her hair in my hand and wondered what the fuck my next move was supposed to be. My arms were weak and trembly, my legs felt as though they’d give out. And she growled, “LET GO OF MY FUCKING HAIR.”

So I did.

She laughed at me and yanked my hair again. Then she dropped the fistfull and stepped back. I opened my mouth and said, “I don’t want to fight. I just.. I don’t want to be friends anymore.”

“I’m going to punch you in the face.”

I looked around, panicked, at the crowd. It was like a gladiator movie. Screaming boys, screaming girls, the majority of whom didn’t know me (or Karen) but were giddy at the prospect of watching two girls slap the crap out of each other.

“Go ahead then. Punch me. I have to catch my bus.” I had no other option. If I missed my bus, I’d be forced to endure another hour of standing there until my mother could come and pick me up. I knew I wasn’t going to punch Karen – I just wanted to end the friendship. I didn’t hate her. I didn’t dislike her. I just wanted to GO HOME.

She hit me. Slammed her fist into my eye, chipping my cheekbone in the process. I stepped back, holding my hand over my eye and put my chin up, “Are you done? Can I go now?”

She started to taunt me, “That’s right, run home to your Moooooooooommy. Go home to your Daaaaaaaaaaaaddy.” I picked up my backpack and walked toward the bus that had just arrived, climbed up the steps and threw myself into the seat. She stood outside the window giving me the finger, and shouting. The other kids on the bus crowded around, “Are you okay? Why did she hit you? What was that all about?” and I sat in silence. Not crying (despite the pain) and not saying a word. What could I say? I had no idea why she hit me – it made no sense to me. How could I explain it to anyone else?

I arrived home and my mother freaked out at my now-black eye, and then, in fast-forward: there was a doctor’s appointment, a meeting with the principal, a meeting with Karen and her parents, Karen was suspended, I was detentioned (though never attended it), the next week of school was terrifying (but ultimately not a big deal).

I recount this story because last night, just before bed, it struck me that I frequently lean toward silence when I am unhappy in a friendship. (And when I pondered this story, I then kept saying, “Holy SHIT! It makes sense! HOLY SHIT!” – much to my husband’s bemusement.) There are several facets to this story that have impacted on me in some big ways.

I don’t expect, of course, that my adult friends will show up on my doorstep and punch me in the head if I tell them I am not interested in continuing our friendship for any reason, but my body goes into panic-mode at the very thought. I swallow my concerns and I feel cornered and antsy when confronted. When my feelings are contrary to what other people think, I hesitate to say anything at all. For something that I thought was a good move – telling Karen I didn’t want to be friends anymore, without malice or anger, and being honest about my feelings – it had a really shitty and (to me, at least) unexpected outcome.

Although it was solely Karen and I in that fight, the crowd was on her side. Not because they had the slightest idea what the fight was about, or agreed with her, but because it was a glorious fight in a public place. And that’s how a lot of fights go, even when they’re not physical. People like to hear about messiness and ugliness and get outraged and take sides. I always have the feeling that the public favour (so to speak) will not be in my favour, no matter how “right” I am. For the most part, I don’t want to tempt it – so I avoid it. I’d much rather have someone say, “Man, D is acting strangely!” than start recruiting their friends to make my life miserable.

On one hand, perhaps I don’t give people enough credit.

On the other hand, I had an experience a few years ago that was so incredibly similar – though not physical – that slammed me right back into that same place. I disagreed with a friend’s actions, which had some big potential repercussions for her, and I told her outright. Shortly thereafter, I got a phone call from a woman I didn’t know – telling me how I was a horrible person, a terribly nasty bitch who was a terrible friend and that I had NO RIGHT to tell my friend I disagreed because I didn’t know X and Y and had never experienced Z and how COULD I say those things and what kind of a bitch AM I? I stammered that I was only speaking my mind, that I was concerned about the friend (just like she was) and that I couldn’t sit back and NOT express my concerns. The woman got more and more angry with me. The call ended with the phone being slammed down. It was like being punched in the face all over again.

That friendship didn’t end, but my god, it’s been painful in a lot of ways ever since. I bite my tongue in half, at times, to not upset her – to not incur the wrath of her friend(s). In the end, much of what I said was true – and there were things I didn’t know, as well. But the reaction – the “ganging up” on me – scared me right back to not wanting to say anything to anyone.

On ‘discovering’ this connection – between my current behaviour and my experience with Karen – I lay on the bed muttering to my husband. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Oh god, it DOES make sense. Maybe that’s part of why I avoid ugly ‘relationship’ conversations with friends..” He snuggled up to me, wrapped his arms around me and listened to me go over it and over it and over it again. The connections being made. I’m not sure how this realization will impact me now. I’d like to say that I’ll try to be more brave and more open about things – that I’ll speak up more often with my friends when things aren’t going in the right direction – but not much has changed since grade nine as far as human interaction principles go. I still don’t want to get punched in the head.