Takes One to Know One

In a dimly lit noodle bar on Haight St. over Tom-Ka Thai Coconut Soup and garlic edimame, I listened.

I listened to my friend pour her heart out in between bites of her dinner. She talked about how one minute the man she loved needed her in his life and then literally, the next minute "couldn't do it anymore." Her voice cracked as she recollected the moment she broke down in front of him but refused to let him see the tears stream down her face.

A few days later in a festively lit taqueria on Divisadero, I received a text message that quickly killed the buzz I had just obtained from 1 margarita and tequila shot.

In between bites of chips and the best chipotle salsa I've ever tasted, I rudely ignored the person sitting in front of me and read. I read about how another friend of mine allowed a man to make her feel as if she had done something wrong when she clearly hadn't. I vigorously texted her back, as she continued to second guess herself and let him dictate her feelings.

I sighed. I didn't know whether I wanted to slap these men for treating my friends like this, or slap my girls for allowing them to. Instead, I put my phone down and ate another chip 'cuz I could've easily slapped myself at that point.

The thing is, we've ALL been on either side of these conversations at least one point in our lives.

And we're usually the girl frustrated with our friends because we were that friend before. Sometimes we still are. One too many times have I heard a tragic relationship story from an amazing girlfriend of mine, and one too many times has it hit close to home. Sometimes I wonder if they make the same "Are you fucking stupid?" faces I make on the other side of the instant messenger box when I share my stories with them.

It's funny how we can be so overprotected with our friends, yet be so wide open with our own hearts. How much easier it is to be strong for another person rather than yourself. How effortless it is to give advice we just can't seem to take. We wish we could take one for the team, so that others can learn from our mistakes and we never have to see the people that we love get hurt. But one can't truly feel victory unless they run the race themselves.

I know nobody and no relationship is perfect, and everyone heals at their own speed, but I just can't help but wish we could all cross the finish line together. Because I'm tired of slapping my forehead when I hear these sob stories from my friends. They sound all too familiar, and I find no validation in telling someone, "See I told you so. I told you he would hurt you like that. Should've listened to me from the jump!"

All I want, is to sit at a brightly lit VIP table in a club on Fillmore St. and drink. Drink and smile and laugh and toast. Toast to the happy stories my girls are telling me and the men who wrote them for us.