Girl Friendships: The Tenth Circle of Hell

My luck with friendships ran out the second I learnt what “best friend of the day” truly meant. Remember everyone getting picked to join a team during P.E. until it’s always you and that one boy who always peed on the P.E. equipment left as a last resort? It’s like that feeling you’d get in the pit of your stomach, hoping your classmates will find you more useful for rounders than the boy with a weak bladder, but amplified tenfold. Because nobody wants to be the last choice.

Funny how particular girls can be. During primary school, girls used to determine what other girls they would grace with their attention by the style of hair they declared worthy that day. You’d be sure to be number one if you brought in a decent packed lunch. If you had to use crutches, it was like winning the lottery, never mind the broken leg. If you got to play Mary in the school nativity that year, you’d be signing autographs each break time, and even the year 6s might smile at you on the playground. Even as kids, status meant everything. My brother, for instance, was an outcast. Associating with him was social suicide. But when secondary school rolled around, it was remarkably easy for my brother to make new friends. I often wondered if he put a curse on me for shunning him so often on the playground, but being older now, I’ve come to understand the truth: boys are just easier than girls.

Whilst boys fight it out on the tarmac with fists, girls like to set their traps, take their time, lure their prey in. Like cuttlefish, they hypnotize their prey with nice words and empty promises, only to later talk behind your back and stick the pages of your homework together and forge a love letter to your childhood crush with a list of baby names and corny poems they found on Tumblr. It was during year 4 I discovered what “fat” meant. We were watching a sex education presentation that involved stick figures thrusting at each other and an all too graphic at-home birth video. One of the girls turned to me, looked me up and down and asked, “You sure you’re not pregnant, Joely?” I asked her what she meant. The rest of the table laughed, then laughed harder when one of the boys replied, “She’s calling you fat, obviously.” I’ve been aware of my body ever since. I used to wrap cling film around my stomach every night. I used to chug warm water before bed. I used to tape up my thighs so it looked like I had a thigh gap. I asked my mum if I could start the Keto diet with her. She gave me a sad smile and said, “You don’t need to, honey. You’re a beautiful little girl.” I skipped dinner that night and cried myself to sleep.

I was always the fat friend, all the way up to university. I often wonder if I attracted the skinny, small boobed, ash blonde girls because the sight of me made them feel better about themselves. When I was much younger, I used to believe being skinny automatically meant being happy. I know now that’s not the case. A girl can lose six stone, but still feel empty inside. A girl can walk into a club in a skintight black dress, hair done up nice, caked in makeup and wielding a paper white smile, but still feel like the ugliest girl in the room. Reflecting on such a devastating collection of friendships with these girls, perhaps I did make them feel less hollow, less ugly, less undesirable. Perhaps knowing they’d be picked by a boy at the bar instead of the fat friend at their hip made them feel invincible. Perhaps they looked me up and down and thought to themselves, “It could always be worse. You could look like that.” If that is the case, I could almost feel sorry for them. They’ll never get what they want: perfection.

There’s only so many girl friendships one can suffer through before hitting rock bottom, then a little further. For a time, I decided not to trust anyone. School was just about survival. University was just about getting by. That’s what all the films say. I had become the outcast I always dreaded becoming. But no matter how hard I tried, sticking my nose in a book all day long didn’t turn me into a long lost princess of a faraway Fae kingdom. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake that pit of your stomach feeling. Perhaps I thought it was a valuable punishment being abandoned in the middle of a dancefloor at two in the morning, 20 Jägerbombs souring in my stomach. Perhaps I thought I deserved being everyone’s last choice, not being worth their time and attention, so I’d walk myself home, covering in rain and my own vomit, and still call them friends the next day. Perhaps I truly believed I was that unworthy.

But, as corny as it sounds, when you hit rock bottom, the only way is up. You pick yourself up piece by piece, because that’s what humans do. It’s not easy. To this day, I still look myself in the mirror and count all the imperfections. I still remember the sound of laughter when that girl called me fat. I still think about the look on my friend’s faces when they looked me up and down, and wondered if they were embarrassed to be seen with me. Even now, I keep hauling the same boulder up the same mountain, knowing it will roll back down each time.

I suppose I should say something inspirational or hopeful. Someone older and wiser would say the only girl friendship you need is the one with yourself. As my mum would say, “It all works out in the end.” I’m only 20, and I’d wager I’ll make plenty more mistakes in the coming years. I can only hope I pick myself back up again. And when the dog days finally draw to an end, maybe I will be my own best friend (wouldn’t that be something).