I had a friend. I made an oath.
I thought she was my friend. I tried very hard to build a relationship. We walked a spiritual path together, and when things were good, they were brilliant.
Things weren’t always good. That is typical of most relationships, but this was something more. I find I am susceptible to a certain abusive personality type. They can easily gaslight me and strip me of my confidence. I start to question the accuracy of my perceptions, and, oddly enough, I try harder. I take the blame, I rationalize, I tell myself I am “doing the work.” I double down on my commitment.
I had a friend. I made an oath.
We walked a spiritual path together, and when things were good, they were brilliant. We went to Ireland. We created rituals. She was my teacher. She never apologized for anything she said that was hurtful. She said a lot of hurtful things.
I was in a constant state of having to prove I was not wrong about things. I was in a constant state of simultaneously being praised and diminished. I showed up. For everything, in every way. She never believed I was sincere. About the spiritual path, about our friendship. About anything. I tried harder.
I had a friend. I made an oath.
I made an oath at a sacred fire on a high holy day before the Gods and Powers. I swore to always be her friend. To be there, by her side, on the path together, always. It was a naive promise. It was a childish wish. I gave a sacrifice to the fire to seal the deal.
I tried, but I could never predict when I would be in the wrong. I worked, but the backhanded compliments and veiled insults became harder to take. Embarrassed in front of friends, credit for my work taken, my children insulted. I kept going. I made an oath.
I had a friend. I made an oath.
Believe me when I say that things were good, they were brilliant. Camping trips, plant magic, festivals, public ritual. Solstice celebrations, long hikes in the forest and coffee after. Inside jokes, adventures. Study, inspiration, meditation, retreats. Those things were wonderful, and for a long time the wonderful won out.
I made an oath. I had made oaths before.
When I was young, I loved a man. I made an oath. I kept the oath until his violence threatened my new son. It was hard, but I broke the oath and left.
When I was young, I served a god. I made an oath. I kept the oath until his rules demanded I stay with the man who harmed me. It was terrifying, but I broke the oath and left.
Yes, it was to THAT god. But an oath made is still an oath.
I had a friend. You know the rest. I kept the oath as she began undermining my love for those closest to me. Criticizing my children. Telling me of her fear that I would choose my husband over her. When I desperately needed her help and support, I called on her, and she decided to take an action that nearly destroyed my family. She said she did not regret it. Still, I tried. But only because I had made an oath. I was bound by that oath, and so I continued.
I swallowed my anger, my rage, the extreme dissonance of remaining with someone who had brought harm to those I love. All because I made an oath. And I keep my oaths.
It was Covid. My family was struggling financially. My children were in danger; we were in a particularly bad area for the illness. My husband was laid off, my hours were cut. I prayed and made offerings to my gods. My husband and I got new, very good jobs that would take us back to the place we had originally come from. We were going home.
She accused me of deceiving her. Of leaving her. Even though we faced financial ruin, she thought I should stay. Still I tried.
I moved away but we talked on the phone and did ritual over Zoom. I was reminded to feel guilty. I was reminded I was not there.
I went to therapy.
My therapist told me to let go. But I had made an oath.
It took some time, but my therapist got through.
It was hard. But I broke my oath. I left.
I still think about her sometimes. I miss the good parts of what we had. My heart hurt for her when I found out her husband had passed suddenly. I wondered who was there for her to help her through such a terrible time. I wanted to reach out so badly, but I knew I could not go back.
Sometimes I worry that I did the wrong thing. Breaking my oath. Oaths are sacred things, and it doesn’t matter if you speak impulsively or are ignorant of what you are doing. An oath is an oath, and there are always consequences for breaking them.
I still think about her sometimes, and I worry. I worry about her being alone.
Her loneliness is not worth my self-sacrifice.
Be careful what you oath; your words go out into the wider worlds and bind you in ways you can’t imagine. It is better not to speak than to be foolish.
Letting go hurts, but oftentimes not as much as holding on.
These are the things letting go taught me.
