Ten years ago, a friend of mine passed away unexpectedly.
It was unexpected to me but not to him.
I’d felt ridden with guilt. Broken that I hadn’t spend more time with him. That I hadn’t tried to talk to him. That I hadn’t really listened. That I hadn’t gone to the hospital to see him.
I’d always assumed I’d let him down. That he was probably disappointed by me.
Yesterday I, without permission, copied his journal so that I could finally know if he’d been upset with me.
What I read had nothing to do with me. He had much bigger problems. Much better friends. In fact, he barely mentioned me in the last few months of his life.
We’d only met a year before his passing. We shared a lot but I realised it was just the surface. I’d felt closer to him than I really was.
Which is something I do to a lot of my friends. I keep them at a distance.
I’ve been trying to practice this for a while: it’s not me, it’s them. Stop taking things so personally.
I’ve spent a long time believing it was all me. So baby steps. One day at a time.