FBF2G: Chapter 2

Author's Note

The characters and story in this book are works of fiction and are not based on true events or real people. However, every author draws inspiration from their own life trials and experiences, and I am no exception. While the narrative and characters are products of my imagination, they are undoubtedly influenced by the emotions and lessons I've encountered throughout my journey. It is my hope that through this fictional tale, readers may find echoes of their own struggles and triumphs, and perhaps a sense of connection and understanding.

Chapter 2

Dr. Camille Blachard

She glided straight towards the podium. Her long brown hair swayed from shoulder to shoulder behind her- effortlessly. Her energy was magnetic. I’d describe it as a golden spotlight surrounding her, dancing with her every move. She looked like an Evelyn O’Connell copy circa 1999, The Mummy- librarian edition, with an Audrey Hepburn elegance to her movements. Her retro beige skirt hugged her curves. As her waist was perfectly pinched, by the brown leather belt that tucked her long white sleeve chemise in. She placed her book on the podium and flipped through the pages- like a choreographed dance. Her demeanor- jolted my breathing- I was fully enamored by her. Each movement elegantly glided into the next. Her polished fingertips firmly held her page, as she looked up at all of us, and read.

“When ghosted, you are forced to let go of someone that you never imagined removing. You are forced to shed habits, moments, experiences, and memories you shared with that person. The most painful stage of the shedding process- is the removal of the layers of who they were, and in doing so, you consequently remove the layers of who you are.” 

Her voice was milky smooth, speaking the words she had written- so poetically.

“You are now faced with overcoming the hurt that follows. When someone you deeply care about decides to disappear out of your life without a reason, or an explanation; you suffer. You question all your choices and beg for answers. You pray to seek closure and most unfortunately, you obsessively try to understand the reason: why did this happen to me?”

She looks back up at all of us. Silent. A dramatic pause. Her eyes darted back to her book, and she continued reading.

“You and like many others before you, have fought for an explanation, and an understanding of their disappearance. Calling, texting and begging for them to reach out to you, to explain themselves. Only to receive pin-drop-silence. The uncertainty to all the unanswered questions haunts us: What did I do wrong? Why did they ghost me?”

I hung onto every word that she said, as though she spoke gospel. Her viewpoint was enlightening in a matter-of-fact way. I looked around the room. Those sitting in the chairs listening to Camille Blachard, were just as enthralled as I.

“These questions have unfortunately led to no answers…Until now.”

As she spoke, her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for something, or someone. Suddenly, she slammed the book shut, the noise instinctively spun my head out of my trance. She pointed to a brunette sitting in the front row, she lit up with recognition as Camille's eyes seemed to linger on her for a moment.

Without any visible interaction or prompting, Annie stood up eagerly. I watched on in confusion, wondering what was happening.

Annie took a deep breath and started talking, her voice quivering with emotion. "Hello, my name is Annie, and I was ghosted by my boyfriend of five years, but we had known each other for over 20 years..." She introduced herself in a way that reminded me of how people introduced themselves in Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. “he shattered me and my self-confidence…” her voice trailed off, as I fell into my own thoughts.

Watching Annie bravely share her story, my heart went out to her. She spoke with such vulnerability, her voice trembling at times with emotion. But what struck me even more was the way the audience members listened so intently. They leaned forward, nodding in agreement, their body language demonstrating silent words of encouragement, and understanding.

The room seemed to shift. It was no longer just a group of strangers gathered in a bookstore, but a community of people who had all experienced the same pain. And in that moment, they came together to offer support and comfort to one another.

I was touched by the kindness and compassion on display. No one judged her for her pain or tried to offer quick-fix solutions. No one asked her a million questions, or tried to insinuate that she must have done something to elicit such a response. No one tried to fault her, or push the responsibility of someone else’s behaviors on her. Instead, they simply listened and empathized with her struggles. They offered praise and thanked her for sharing her story, creating a space of solidarity and healing.

I found myself feeling slightly envious of the response she was receiving from the crowd. As my past experiences with sharing my story met an opposite reaction. Each time I had divulged that I had been ghosted by a friend rather than a romantic connection, I was immediately dismissed. Seemed to me that people held romantic relationships to a higher standard. That the story line that mattered was dependent on our choice of connection; romantic or platonic. Therefore because it’s platonic, I must be overexaggerating.

I roll my eyes to the back of my head recalling how many people gaslit me with their words “oh no! you must have had a crush on her, that’s why you feel this so deeply.” As if I am refrained as a human to feel pain unless it was caused by a romantic connection. Therefore based on that logic, because I feel pain for a same-sex friend, I must be a lesbian.

I roll my eyes deeper into my skull.

This has lead me to abstain from expressing myself and being vulnerable infront of others. The moment I expressed the words “ghosted” “best friend” in the same sentence, I am immediately bombarded with a thousand questioning statements. Those two simple words have been used to fill in the blank with all kinds of false assumptions. People have been quick to create their own made-up story about what I experienced and why, without ever listening. I became the book judged by the cover, rather than the contents.

I have always wanted to be able to share my story in a way that would make me feel safe and a little less alone. I want to be part of a community that shows me the same compassion and belonging as they have showed Annie.

I looked forward at Annie, analyzing the left side of her face, her cheek was swollen, and the underneath’s of her eyes were red from all the tears she had recently shed. She turned her head, catching my gaze. I wanted to spin my head away, but I kept eye contact with her. She stared at me like a child looking for validation. Optimistic, longing for approval, and afraid of rejection. She nodded her head at me, as though she was prompting me to take action, somehow. But for what?

I shot my focus towards Dr. Camille. I could see her nodding at me but I couldn’t quite catch her words.

“I’m sorry what did you say?” I asked as I forced all my energy and focus to my listening ears.

“Would you like to share your experience?” Dr. Camille encouraged.

I was taken aback by her question. Unsure how to respond, I tried to speak, but I was frozen, and my body cement. I could feel my anxiety rising at the mere thought of speaking out in front of a crowd. I knew that once I let the anxiety set in, then my old friend Fear would seize his opportunity. I could hear him whispering in my ear, forcing me to acknowledge his presence. I pushed him aside, knowing that if I let Fear in, he would bring a few of his friends with him, judgment, rejection, shame and embarrassment. I couldn’t allow them in, because I knew they were no match for the worst kind of friend Fear had, and his name was Panic. Panic came with a whole bunch of issues, but the worst kind was a panic attack.

I had to push fear away. I couldn’t risk it. Not today. Especially not today. I turned my focus back to Annie, her eyes were still red and swollen, but her smile was kind. I looked around the room, and wondered if I could share my story with them. Could I open up? Will I be safe? Or will I be judged? They seemed so warm and inviting when Annie shared her story. These people in the crowd did understand the suffering that came with getting ghosted by someone that they loved. So, maybe I could share my story? Maybe they’d understand?

Story Time

I took a deep breath.

“Her name was Alexandra Worthington, but I called her Sasha for short. We were friends for over 10 years. Umm- She ghosted me 2 years ago- I’ve since tried to contact her, and talk things out, but she never reached back out to me.”

I want to throw up. Breathe. Seraphina. Breathe.

“ Go on.” Dr. Camille noticing my uncomfortable state, attempted to encourage me through it “what happened between you both?”

I clasped my hands together, fiddling my fingers in-between my knuckles.

I feel sick. Here we go. Vomit. no. Word Vomit.

“ to be honest, I am not quite sure what happened. She had some problems with her ex-boyfriend, so I let her move into my room with me. I shared the apartment with a roommate, and we were all so close until we weren’t. Things started to get weird when my roommate and her started flirting with each other. They promised not to date because of our living situation, but that quickly changed. It used to be all three of us hanging out, until she started uninviting me- claiming date night. During that time, I was dating my boyfriend, who she wasn’t fond of. She would make a lot of mean remarks about him, claim she hates him, but when we all hangout, she would smile, laugh, joke, borderline flirt with him. It was weird. Whenever I shared with her how a date went with my boyfriend, she would somehow twist my experience into something negative. I started feeling increasingly judged and less safe sharing anything with her. When my boyfriend told me he loved me, I didn't tell my best friend. I was afraid she would ruin that special moment for me. She constantly encouraged me to dump him, and when I wouldn’t, she would get passive aggressively mad at me. She’d ignore me for days at a time, even though we lived together. The less I did the things she wanted me to do, the more she ignored me. My roommate also stopped talking to me, and blindly believed everything she told him. She convinced him my boyfriend was bad, so he tried to ban him from the apartment. I didn’t bring him around anymore, but that wasn’t good enough. She stopped talking to me completely. ”

Camille's gaze was fixated on me, waiting for me to continue to speak. I felt a sudden rush of anxiety and confusion as I realized what was happening. My heart began to race as I looked around at the expectant faces in the audience.

oh no. they’re all looking at me. staring. I dropped this entire bomb, and now they are looking at me like I am crazy. Crazy girl must be inlove with her best friend. I can here them think it. Crazy girl must be lying. Crazy girl must be the one who caused the problems, and she’s just to inept to admit it. I shouldn’t have spoken up. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Camille's eyes were still fixed on me, urging me to take on the spotlight. At that moment, I felt like a deer caught in the headlights, completely frozen and unsure of what to do next.

My attempt to stay out of the spotlight was backfiring, and now it seemed like all eyes were on me. I could feel the weight of everyone's expectations pressing down on me, and the fear of speaking in public was almost suffocating. The voice inside my head taunted me, "way to keep us out of the spotlight." I could feel my hands shaking and my throat closing up. All I could do was shake my head no, too afraid to speak and risk being ridiculed. It was a moment of deep shame and disappointment in myself, but I simply couldn't bring myself to take that leap of faith.

Camille seemed like she was not someone who backed down easily, which was made evident in her piercing gaze. She locked eyes with me, nodding her head, silently encouraging me to step up. Her regard seared into me, burning a hole with her eyes. She seemed intrigued by my reluctance to open up, as though she wanted to dive deeper into the depths of my mind. It was almost as if she saw something in me that I had yet to discover for myself.

Her unwavering determination attempted to push me out of my comfort zone.

"Please, share." She urged. "We won't bite," she reassured me. "We're all here for the same reason, facing similar pain. You're not alone in this." Her words cut through the silence, leaving me grappling for a response. This made me feel both exhilarated and uneasy at the same time. Yet, all I could manage was a quick shake of my head.

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. Am I not alone? Will these strangers listen to me? Will they hear my side of the story? Will they believe me? Will they understand? Can I do this?

ha! you think they’ll believe you? look at you, you’re a mess. that’s why she left. you’re a mess. she left. a mess.

My palms sweaty, my shoulders shuddered, and my knees buckled. My mind went numb and hazy. I was disassociating. I felt myself falling. My senses were hyperacute, as I could hear everything happening around me, and then I heard nothing. Silence.

Everyone’s faces seemed to slowly distort in front of me. Their faces seemed to be melting, and their bodies were all merging together. I frantically looked around the room, the mutable rug underneath me was shrinking. The soles of my feet felt light as a feather, lifting me up off the tight grip of the rug. The bookshelf I was leaning against seemed to float away from me. My surroundings felt like a drugged-out haze, and then nothing. I see nothing. Only darkness. The furniture, the rugs, the people, the bookstore, all gone. Everything is gone. Empty.

I was floating. Floating in darkness, and then I was running.

I stumbled into the bathroom; my legs wobbly from the panic that had seized me moments before. The sink was cold to the touch as I turned on the tap, and water gushed forth in a rush. I cupped my hands beneath the stream and splashed the icy water on my face, hoping to wash away the remnants of the disorienting episode.

What just happened?

I could recall the fear that engulfed me when Dr. Camille and the group stared at me with expectation. I remember stumbling into the bathroom, panicked. Yet, I had no memory of what happened in-between.

Did I just experience an episode of insanity? Why did I feel the need to run? And why could I not remember doing it?

As droplets ran down my cheeks, I looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I recognized the girl staring back at me, but she didn’t seem to recognize me. My heart shaped face appeared sullen, an emptiness that could see right through me. There was no color in my cheeks or the normal rosy tint to my skin. I appeared hollow, ghostly. The tears mixed with mascara streaked down my cheeks, and my hands trembled as I combed my hand through my tangled hair.

God. I am a mess.

In an attempt to collect myself, I took a few deep breaths. Quieting the noise in my mind and softening the tension in my muscles. Attempting to release some of the anxiety that's been building up inside me. I continued to inhale deep breaths, while counting to three and exhaling out five.

Inhale. One. Two. Three.

Exhale. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Repeating the pattern until I feel a calm surge pass through my skin.

Inhale. Exhale.

Taking in one last big breath, I reached for the door handle.

I quietly scurried out of the bathroom. The plan was to slip away unnoticed and make a quick exit from the bookstore.

I don’t want anyone to see me like this.

My eyes dart around, trying to avoid the group, making my way towards the door. I notice that the reading has ended, the people in the group are now scattered throughout the bookstore, some leaving, some browsing and buying their books. I search the crowd for Dr. Camille, but I can't seem to spot her anywhere.

A wave of relief washes over me as I reach for the door, convinced that I've skillfully slipped away unnoticed. The cold touch of the metal handle sends a shiver down my spine, and just as I prepare to make my exit, an inexplicable feeling of being watched grips me. Raising my eyes, I find myself face to face with Dr. Camille Blachard.

My heart sinks. Panic sets in. What do I do? What do I say? Think Fast. My mind races, desperately searching for an escape. In a hasty attempt to diffuse the tension, I blurt out, "I'm sorry." My apology hangs in the air, leaving me frozen and uncertain of my next move. I brace myself for a reprimand, expecting her to chastise me for causing a scene and embarrassing her in front of the crowd.

"Sorry?"  Confusion clouds Dr. Camille’s expression. The lump in my throat grows, and I fumble for words, struggling to articulate the real reason behind my apology. A torrent of thoughts floods my mind, each one an apology for my perceived inadequacies—I’m sorry for embarrassing you, making you look bad in front of others, for causing a scene, and for not meeting your expectations.

My words floating in the silence, leaving us standing in an awkward scene, my gaze fixed on the floor, avoiding her penetrating eyes. My self-deprecating thoughts seeping through the cracks: I must seem so pathetic to her, and attention-seeking. So weak, emotional, and too sensitive.

Needy. Clingy. Waste of Space. Weak. Weak. Weak.

Before I can unravel the confusion, her fingers gently lift my chin, compelling me to meet her gaze. Bracing myself for the anticipated scolding, I summon the courage to look at her. To my surprise, her expression is neither stern nor critical. Instead, a subtle kindness emanates from her as she shoots me a warm, reassuring smile, teeth on display, cheeks aglow.

"You dropped this," she says, presenting a copy of her book. As my fingers encircle the cardboard binding, I felt her tug back, and her eyes locked onto mine with unwavering conviction. "I hope you find some comfort in these pages," she encourages, releasing her grip on the book. Before I can express my gratitude, she nods gently and vanishes into the crowd.

I stood there for a moment, clutching the book to my chest. I felt disoriented, confused, and bewildered by Dr. Camille’s actions. Why didn't she unleash her frustration on me? I had braced myself for it. Instead, she smiled upon me with an unexpected warmth, a feeling of hope and gratitude. It was a simple gesture, and yet it was kindness that I hadn’t been shown in a very long time. I looked back down at the book.

Maybe this book will help me find the answers that I’ve been searching for.

With a deep breath, I pushed open the door and stepped out into the bright sunlight, ready to face whatever came my way.