When Friendship Shows Up Anyway

I wanted to take a moment to talk about what happened after yesterday’s post. Because sometimes healing doesn’t just happen in solitude—it happens in connection, too.

During a trauma response, it’s easy to react instead of respond. Our bodies make that decision way before our minds are consented - and thats why they call it PTSD. When we’re flooded, we don’t always make healthy choices. Some people get in the car and speed down the highway. Some head to a bar. The list of self-destructive options is endless.

But that’s not how I live anymore. No matter what someone says or does to me, (or makes up about me), no matter how cruel their words are, even when people go so far as to invent their own narratives about me and pass them off as truth—I choose the pause.

It’s incredibly painful when you tell someone the truth, and they reject it in favor of their own invented version of reality—and then go on to share that with others. That kind of betrayal is hard for anyone. But when you’re someone who lives with chronic illness, sobriety, and an already overstimulated nervous system? It can be devastating.

In my case, deeply personal and untrue stories about my medical history have been twisted and shared. I often wonder if people are just waiting for me to fail, so they can point and say, “See? Told you she was unstable. I’m the good one here. I’ll save the day.”

That’s what I am dealing right now.

So I paused. I stopped everything. I asked myself: What just happened?

The answer?

I lost my phone. That’s it. What happened next was disproportionate and unkind.

After confirming I was safe, I was bombarded with accusations: that I was mentally unwell, misusing medication, neglecting my dog and home, being a terrible daughter, disrespectful… even disgusting. All because I dropped my phone while walking my puppy.

Once I caught my breath—once I remembered that I hadn’t done anything to deserve such an escalated, mildly violent outburst—I made a choice. I didn’t run. I didn’t retaliate. I didn’t self-destruct.

But I was scared. My mind may understand that the door is locked and hes gone - but my body doesn’t. I picked up the phone and asked for help.

Someone from my past—someone I’ve been through a lot with—answered. He already knew something had happened; he had been contacted early in the morning. When he asked, “Do you need me?” I said, “Yes. Please come.” I couldn’t be alone. I was terrified. My blood pressure was over 180. I was hyperventilating. By the time he arrived, I was in a full-blown panic attack, and my boyfriend was working.

He raced over, and showed up. Not with expectations. Not to fix anything. Just to be there. Just to make sure I wasn’t alone.

He sat with me quietly. Let me cry. Stayed until someone new—someone I’m now building something with—came to take over. We got to talk about that, I got to tell him about my new boyfriend. It was uplifiting to see that he was genuinely happy for me. I didn’t see one speck of jealousy in his eyes. He was grateful I had found someone I cared for.

While we sat together, I broke down—not just about the day, but about everything that had happened between us. I finally told him how deeply I’d been hurting. And he cried too. Because he hadn’t known.

It turns out there had been a major misunderstanding. Months ago, I’d written him an email, accusing him of cheating on me. He never read the full message. He just saw that I was hurt and sent a quick reply: “I know. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Can we move on?”

I thought that was a confession. He thought it was damage control. We’ve both been carrying two completely different stories.

But yesterday, we saw each other clearly for the first time in a long time. And he showed up, as my friend. And now—finally—we’re finding our way back to that.

This doesn’t change the present. I’m in a new emotional and relational chapter now. But this moment mattered. It gave me closure. It reminded me that I’m not crazy, or forgotten, or unlovable. And that even after everything, someone I loved once still cared enough to show up for me.

That kind of friendship—clean, platonic, rooted in mutual healing—is rare.

And I’m grateful for it.