Platonic Intimacy

tw: death

It seems I’m only updating my substack once every year now doesn’t it? ha.

I was going to dedicate a post to my adventures in New Zealand, which may still come after I finish going through all the photos.

Today I felt like writing about something else. I couldn’t go away in January with my friends this year because I’ve got no more annual leave at work, so I’m sat at home in the kitchen, cancelling my meetings and feeling untethered from reality, which is indifferent to the grief in my heart.

I just took Kerry up a coffee in bed. Sat there a while and chatted. Today would be Stace’s 37th birthday. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day she died. Over the years, lots of people have said ‘it’ll get easier', but on these two days nothing is easy. I’m back in that pokey hospital room in Norwich, filled with her family, and Stace, in and out of consciousness on the bed, hanging on for her birthday.

I don’t think it’s easy on this day, partly because I’m still processing my memories through a mind that are already shabby from trauma. I don’t remember things that well, I’m constantly questioning my own emotional reactions, thinking I’m being too much, too performative, too dramatic.

I don’t think it’s easy because she died so young, I lost my best friend so young, before I had done any of the work on myself that now holds me up as a person. Maybe it’s the chicken and the egg vibe, I might not have sorted my shit out if she hadn’t had died. But I did, and at the core of myself I found what I truly wanted - platonic intimacy.

There were moments when I was scared of my feelings for Stace, they were so intense. I thought at times that I was romantically in love with her because I was so invested, I cared for her above all others. She saw every angle I had, every dark little corner, every brightly lit room and she stayed there with me. We were fluid with our gender in the context of our relationship. We called each other ‘bro’. When we roleplayed online, we were each other’s boyfriends and girlfriends. It was fulfilling in a way real life wasn’t. We created imaginary places where we could be ourselves, in all capacities, without limits or societal pressures.

Ultimately, what we had before we could really articulate it, was platonic intimacy. That has become the foundation of my values in others now. I sought that intimacy with others after she died. With one person it was so intense it became toxic and I realised we were trauma bonding. With others, they gently pushed their love on me when I felt unworthy of anything and over time helped me to love myself.

Now I’m 37, almost a decade after Stace’s death, and I live with my platonic partners, Cassie and Kerry, who I would do anything for. We share everything, secrets, the car, bills, toothpaste. We, who don’t want marriage or kids, have committed to each other long term. We will support each other in all the ways we possibly can. Life, in this disgusting capitalism hellscape, is bearable.

Lots of people don’t really get it. I guess because we are brought up in a (broken) society which sells heteronormative love and marriage as the only survival model. I’ve watched people in life get married and lose the value of their friendships, and that’s always hit me as extremely sad. Who are we without friendships? Who can see the truth of a person better than friends? I learnt to trust, to be open and honest through the friendships I hold onto and nurture.

I visited Stace in hospital in December 2016, when the doctors said there was nothing else they could do, and we watched our favourite films and laughed about stupid things like we always did. On the third day, I left early. I couldn’t contain my emotions anymore, and I didn’t want to cry on her because that didn’t seem fair. She was sad that I was leaving early, but I told her I would be back in the new year, convinced we had more time and I would be able to say the things I wanted to then.

I didn’t get that extra time. But I showed up when it mattered. I painted her nails, she made a fart joke. I got to hold her hand and say goodbye.

“Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.” —Anais Nin