Putting the “end” in “friend”

Yesterday morning, I had a perfectly friendly phone conversation with someone who’s been acting as my self-appointed “life coach” for a few months. We’d been out of touch for a couple of weeks, so it was time for a check-in. He asked about my hair (still growing), my weight (at my goal and holding), my chest cold (gone at last, although he clucked like a mother hen about how important it was for me to stay out of the rain for a while longer). Then he made an extremely earthy comment about sex. He’s characteristically blunt and I am demonstrably hard to shock, so I assumed he was, as they say, having me on a bit. I laughed and replied that I was willing to acknowledge that there’s always room to learn new things, but that I didn’t think I needed coaching in that regard. We moved on to other topics. Eventually, we agreed to meet for coffee on some future, less rainy day, and I got back to work, thinking nothing of it.

Eight hours later, I received email saying he felt he’d crossed a line, was sorry, had realized that he was becoming uncomfortable in our friendship, and was therefore letting me know that he had decided to draw it to a close. Have a nice life, bye.

Imagine my astonishment.

I never asked for someone to manifest in my life in a coach/mentor role — he suggested it. For reasons I still don’t understand, he took me on as a bit of a project, volunteering to help me approach the second half of my life with a bit more grace and savoir-faire than I used in careening through the first half. Yes, he advised me about improving my appearance, because that’s one of his areas of expertise. But we also spent a lot of time sitting around over coffee, talking about philosophy, literature, and so forth. When I was sick last month, he dropped cold medicine in my mailbox and called me every few days to check on me. I never experienced his attention as a come-on; it was a teacherly/parental vibe.

I graciously accepted all of his advice, took on what made sense to me, experimented with a few things that pushed my limits, and quietly ignored what clearly wasn’t for me. His pontificating and opining sometimes worked my nerves, and I sometimes felt that he simply liked having an audience, but in truth, there was a lot of wheat among that chaff. Every time we had a conversation, I literally sat for half an hour afterwards writing out notes. He told me several times, sometimes in exactly these words, “I see a lot of potential in you, and I want to help you achieve it.” I welcomed that as something I haven’t had much of in my life. Hell, I ate it up. I’d be lying through my shiny white teeth if I said I wouldn’t miss it.

What’s really interesting, though, is my response to this abrupt and unexpected ending. My first reaction was, “Oh no, what did I do wrong?” That startled me. As I thought about it more, I discovered two uncomfortable truths:

First, while I ordinarily balk at authority figures and rebel whenever I perceive that someone is trying to control me, I really liked having this parent/teacher/mentor figure telling me what to do. And second, I really liked the approval and praise I got when I followed his instructions.

On some level, there’s still a little kid in me who feels confused by the world, very much in need of guidance, and grateful to receive it from someone delivering it in a kind way. That little kid was thinking, “Finally! Someone who has the answers and can give them to me! Someone who can tell me how to get where I want to go!” Now she feels like she’s been told, “Yes, I have the answers, but I’m not going to share them, because I’ve decided you don’t deserve them after all.”

But the truth is, the adult in me knows damn well that whatever my friend’s reason for slamming the door in my face (and that’s precisely what it feels like), it has nothing to do with me, nothing at all. I still have every bit of potential, regardless of whether or not someone else sees and comments on it. It’s up to me to bring it out and put it on display. And I guess that’s my erstwhile coach’s final, and most valuable, lesson.

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