[ WP ] `` She used to be my best friend . ''

She ’ s imaginary. That doesn ’ t make her less real. 
 
 I don ’ t remember when I first met Mary. My parents say I started talking about her when I was three, but for all I know, she ’ s been with me my whole life. 
 
 When there was no-one to play with, she ’ d play. When there were people to play with, she ’ d play too. My parents indulged me, my sister rolled her eyes, and Mary just kept on playing. Friends would tell lies, family would ignore or berate. But her I could trust to keep my secrets, laugh at my jokes, share in my fears. Nothing was silly to her, I was never annoying or embarrassing in her eyes. 
 
 When I was six and Becca left home, she kept me company. When Daddy started to drink and shout, she told me it ’ d be okay. When Mummy started to blame me for the divorce, she told me it wasn ’ t my fault. She held me through the worst times, she loved me when I felt unloveable, and for that I ’ ll always be thankful. 
 
 But time moves on, and children grow up. At first I could take the scorn and the laughter, but after a while it got to be too much. It ’ s hard being the only fourth-grader who still talks to her imaginary friend, and the word ‘ imaginary ’ took on a new meaning. It didn ’ t mean Mummy and Daddy didn ’ t see her, it didn ’ t mean the other kids didn ’ t understand – it meant she wasn ’ t there. When that clicked, that was the first time a rift opened up between us. I was just talking to myself. 
 
 She stopped taking the bus to school with me. She stopped being there when class was boring. She didn ’ t laugh at my jokes when I was watching TV. And one day – some day I don ’ t even remember – was the last day I saw Mary. 
 
 Life went on. I made new friends. Sometimes they were great, sometimes they were awful. That ’ s just growing up, you know? I did well in school, got good grades, some awards, played a lot of tennis. Drama and boys and exam stress, it all came and it all went. 
 
 Maybe all that time talking to a glorified mirror messed me up, or maybe socializing just wasn ’ t my strong point, but I never did quite get the hang of fitting in. When I was in high school, I wasn ’ t so much liked as I was tolerated. People still wanted me around, because I was kind of a loser and somebody had to drag my from my sad existence of books and online message boards. They took the burden that was my presence on as a favour, and expected it repaid in gratitude. They were my friends, even though I always seemed to end up the butt of the jokes. 
 
 Less a great pal, more a great sport. 
 
 And one evening as I stared at myself in the mirror, bedecked in a new outfit for Francine ’ s 16th and trying to convince myself I looked fantastic, Mary came back. 
 
 She ’ d always been honest with me – always been true. That night she made no exception to that rule, when she told me I looked ridiculous. When she pointed out that the dress was two sizes too big, that it was covered in the kind of gaudy bejewelled bullshit that a ten year-old would think tacky, I knew she was right. 
 
 I didn ’ t go to that party. I heard afterwards that Julia got drunk and vomited all over Francine ’ s cat, it was hilarious. Everyone said it was great fun, but Mary was right when she told me I wouldn ’ t have enjoyed myself. 
 
 From then on, she was always there. She wasn ’ t pointlessly cruel, she was just honest. Sometimes she hurt, sometimes she was scathing, but it was all in my own best interests. She cautioned me when I started making a fool of myself, brought me back to earth when I got too excited, reminded me when I got too hopeful not to overestimate myself. 
 
 My grades held up, and I got into college. That was easier, for a while. Turns out there are a lot of introverts out there, and throwing up into a trashcan at 1am isn ’ t everybody ’ s idea of a good time. I hung out with people who could be silent for hours and be having the time of their lives, people who played video games and read books and talked about them, and for the first time I started to feel at home. 
 
 Mary wasn ’ t impressed. She pointed out that I was just hiding, that just because I ’ d found people who hid too didn ’ t make it okay. But she wasn ’ t so loud then, when things were good. 
 
 Dad died. Heart attack, age 48. Always did like his bacon too much. 
 
 He was an asshole – selfish, drunk, abusive. That I could remember the last nice thing he said about me wasn ’ t so much a reflection of his kindly nature as it was a testament to my long memory. I should have just brushed it off and moved on, but something held me back. I almost didn ’ t go to his funeral – yet when I was there, nobody cried louder than me. For weeks afterwards, I couldn ’ t stop breaking down, and I still can ’ t say why. For all that he was a monster, he was still a part of me, and his departure from my life was my first real encounter with death. 
 
 My lecturers understood at first, but there ’ s only so many extended deadlines you can miss before somebody starts to put their foot down. I flunked a couple of important papers, and barely scraped by on the rest. Talked to the dean – begged, pleaded, and eventually she let me redo the semester. 
 
 Mary was never vindictive. But she wasn ’ t wrong when she said that a second chance was one more than I deserved. 
 
 She was right when she pointed out that I was more fun when I drank. I stopped being so moody, started letting myself have fun. Started talking to people, to boys, started dancing and laughing and being a person people wanted to be around. It was nice – and it was, as Mary pointed out, the only way I was going to get people to like me. 
 
 I still remember my first spliff. The evening was winding down, we were on the balcony, and it was a beautiful night. Don ’ t even remember whose it was, but all of a sudden there was a terrible stink and a burning roll of paper in my face, and it didn ’ t take any more than a gentle prod from Mary before I was soaring. 
 
 One became many. People loved me when I was high. When there was a joint or a bowl being passed around, taking a puff immediately made you one of them. They weren ’ t druggies or anything, they just liked to have one every now and then to relax, to take the edge off and unwind. I started to hang out with them, and despite the popular perception, there was so much more to these people than just this plant they smoked. We had endless discussions about every topic you can imagine, and plenty you couldn ’ t. The pot taught me how to be myself, taught me not to panic, not to fear. It made all these people like me – like me for who I was - for who I was – and all the while there was Mary, nodding with a smile. 
 
 Things only really went wrong when I started smoking alone. 
 
 Turns out life ’ s a lot easier when you ’ re high. When the assignments started coming due and the pressure began to mount, weed kept me level. When the failed grades started to mount up, I didn ’ t let myself melt down like I once might have. And it was only a year later, well after I ’ d dropped out entirely, long past when I started bartending to keep a roof over my head – it was only then that the anxiety started to come back. 
 
 The missed opportunities hadn ’ t seemed so great when they ’ d been presented, but now they began to haunt me. Old buddies who had taken them had excitement, had prospects. They lived for the next day, I was just trying to get through this one. I thought of going back to school, or checking in with a chance that might still be dangling on the line – but it was scary now. It was hard. And Mary didn ’ t shy away from telling me that the chance was gone now. I ’ d failed. 
 
 I still have moments. Flashes of excitement and enthusiasm, brilliance and motivation. But once the passion ’ s risen, Mary ’ s right there to remind me that I do not have the strength or the will to climb these mountains. Light up another bowl, she tells me. Inhale deep. Watch a cartoon. This is the best you can hope for, now. You know you don ’ t have the dedication to see it through. You know you ’ ll give up after the first few steps. You know you ’ ll fuck it up, just like you ’ ve fucked everything else up, and in the doing you ’ ll just push yourself ever lower. 
 
 This is my truth, now. This is my world. Me, myself, Mary, THC. 
 
 She used to be my best friend.
