The one with the old friends and the new
Another message: a skull and crossbones. Followed by three devils, then a poo. And finally, a snake. A brief caesura. Then come five messages with a variety of insults, ending with a conclusive: ‘You are the worst person I’ve ever met. I can’t wait to kill you’.
I respond with the one certain to infuriate: the ‘wacky’ emoji with crazy eyes. I send it five times. She replies: ‘Too far, bitch.’ I send crazy eyes a few more times, laughing to myself like Mutley.
After almost 25 years of friendship, this is what it’s come to.
Not the ‘Old Friends’ Simon & Garfunkel sang of: sat on the park bench like bookends. There’s no quiet dignity here. Instead Old Friends: bombard-texting emojis of devils and death threats. That’s the thing about friends you’ve known for most of your life: there are no niceties left - the hearts just don’t cut it. Of all my friends, there are only a small handful who I would dream of bombarding in this juvenile way. Why?
It might seem obvious and simple - you’ve known them longer. But it’s more than that. In ten years time, will I have the same relationship with people I became friends with ten years ago? No, definitely not. I think about it as I make my coffee. I’ve made the milk too hot again.
Friendships - how they grow and change, how strong they become, whether or not they last - isn’t only about time. After all, how do you get to any significant length of time without being drawn to each other, making an effort, liking each other? No, it’s more about context; where and when these bonds are forged, what lies at the core of the relationship, what each of you needs from the other. I take the skin off the top and pour the milk onto my coffee - I shake the jug like I do every time in a pathetic attempt at foam art. It looks like nothing. I’m calling it a rabbit. My phone goes again.
One of the unique benefits your oldest friends provide is the permission you have to be awful. You can be your very worst self and it’s just fine. In fact, it’s hard not to be your worst self. It’s hard not to pull each other up on every little annoying habit. It’s hard not to revert back to being 16. It’s hard not to be a dick. And yet, it’s such a blessed relief to be with each other - like taking your bra off at the end of the day or squeaking out of wet jeans and getting into your pyjamas. The joy of having a shorthand, of knowing they’ll always get it, of never having to censor yourself, of being able to be silly or hideous or ridiculous - it’s bliss.
I have two friends I’ve known since I was 16 and there is simply nothing left to reveal to each other. It’s gone way beyond warts and all. It’s not that I wear a mask around other friends, it’s just that it’s so tantalising to be able to say the very worst, to voice words that might get you in trouble elsewhere, to be unfiltered, to bitch - really bitch, to unleash your worst side like a rabid dog on a hot day. You might not even mean what you’re saying but still, it’s cathartic - it’s a delicious indulgence so you go there. In a world where judgement comes quick and fast, where people are ostracized, vilified - cancelled - for speaking their opinions, how freeing it is to say whatever you feel like saying in the moment, to be frivolous with words and know they’ll wash away like chalk in the rain. There’s no judgement, no price to pay. Sometimes you can just be an arsehole and that’s ok.
Then there’s the comfort of simply knowing each other; the kind of knowledge that only comes after numerous chapters. Friendships forged in adolescence or on the brink of adulthood have plenty of story. If you think of these relationships as the main narrative in a film or TV show, there are countless threads going on in the background: school, family, love, death, sex, enemies, drugs, alcohol, intrigue. These are the years in which life is vividly dramatic, the years of myriad small things that seem collectively huge.
You get drunk in the park; you sleep on each other’s floors; you snog people, you hate people; you lie on beds and talk, you go to university; you love people; you fall, they fall, you stop each other hitting the ground; you laugh until you cry; you cry until you laugh; boyfriends come and go; people die; hearts break; and the next thing. One day, this will be your past, and so it deepens the bonds of your friendship, now entirely unbreakable, almost unconditional. When you’ve seen each other at your most vulnerable, your most broken, and your most luminous, there’s not much else to see. There’s no hiding from each other, no pretending. It’s effortless.
This is the bit where I’m supposed to say how wonderful this is - and it is. These friendships are as easy, as familiar as your most comfortable pants, and we need that. It’s home. But if you stay at home forever, what will you experience of the world, what will you learn about yourself, how will you grow? Who said comfort is the enemy of change? Probably no one, so I’ll say it.
Our oldest friends know our narratives as well as we know them. The things we tell ourselves - what we’re good at, what we hate, what we’ll never do, what we’ll always do. They know them all. But what if we want to change the narrative? What if some of those things aren’t true anymore? It’s not that old friends stop us from growing or changing - rather that we ourselves revert to type, to some notion of an antiquated self. You know when you spend time with your family and after three days it’s like you’re 15 again? That. We all play our parts, diligently sticking to dynamics that came into being decades ago.
Your oldest friends remind you of your past, because they were there, they lived it with you - the good, the bad, and the unspeakable. Like family, they skirt the lines between the most sublime purity of affection, love, and suffocation.
When I spend time with my closest, oldest friends (the people I met between the ages of 16 and 20) there’s always some reminiscing. It’s fond, warm, comforting. It’s good for the soul and I miss it when it’s not there - but it’s not all we need. We also need the types of friendships that come with no pasts, only futures. The ones that are light with possibility. It’s not about reinvention. I’m not saying we all have some Madonna-like need to rebrand ourselves every three years. It’s about the small things. It’s about the fact that as humans, we are thousand-sided shapes. Over time some edges harden while others soften, we become parents, we veer more right or more left, we surprise ourselves. We need to be allowed to let different parts of ourselves come to the fore, and others fade into shadow - not forever, perhaps, but for a time.
Until I became a parent I didn’t have any ‘new friends’. Not really. Of course there were some - friends for a time: the run of a play, three months in an office. Looking back I see that I viewed these friendships as temporary. I never nurtured them the way I did my real friends. It was too much effort, too polite. These new friends: Can we argue for an entire day about whether it’s another think coming or another thing coming? (It’s think, obviously). Can I chat to them while I’m on the loo? Can I be knowingly annoying, horrendous? No? Then what’s the bloody point? I’ve got my friends, I don’t need any more! I liked the comfort too much. I was blind to the joy of the new.
When you meet someone for the first time, you know nothing of each other’s journeys to this moment. So what? It’s not like you’re going to pretend to be queen of a small principality or an international spy. The joy is simply this: it’s new and fresh - a smooth, blank sheet of paper. You hold the pen and where you draw your lines is up to you. You connect solely through who you are in this moment, now. Just like the start of a romantic relationship, it’s new and exciting. There are things to discover, stories to share, unearthing of treasures. This time you’re not a 16 year old feeling your way through the dark. You have agency, some knowledge of people and the world around you, command over your own narrative. It’s not a case of being deceptive or only showing yourself in a positive light - on the contrary. It’s about being your truthful self - the self you are now. And it’s about discovery - hearing new stories, paths different from yours, the pieces of their past curated for your ears.
Deep down, your benchmark is the friends you already have: the ones you call from a hospital at 2am, the ones who always burn brightest. Nobody will ever be them. That doesn’t mean there isn’t space for both.
Like sparks against kindling, some friendships take, others fade to soot. You think you can tell which will be which but you can’t. The only way to find out is by lighting the touch paper.
