Stay Away From Her, She's Lovely - What to Do When You’re the ‘Toxic Friend’

Make it stand out

On being the toxic friend, from beginning to end.

I thought it was never going to happen, but I’ve finally gathered my peanuts in a bowl, mushed them into a thick crunchy paste, and can say that I’m finally ready to spread this peanut butter to the far corners of the slice of toast that is what you’re about to read.

I was recently confronted with the harsh, soul-crushing truth that I was an emotionally abusive human being. What people would commonly do when they are hit with such a difficult reality is either lash out or find a million excuses to excuse their behaviour. I had none, and went completely silent to the world I was living in. I went into full hibernation, in the middle of summer.

I believe everyone has a toxic side, after all, we’re not all good, nor all bad. I’m just interested in what happens when that toxic side takes over and why I seemed to lean into it, unaware of it being my daily reality?

I’m not going to take you through the years of me being a self-created damsel in distress and all the drama-fuelled nonsense I’ve managed to unwillingly stir up in my cauldron. There are too many things involved, and rather than this article being about those things, I’d rather it be about what they’ve taught me. I have come to the not-so-dramatic conclusion that I am a highly sensitive human being. Being extremely sensitive is one thing, but not grasping that, assessing it, and protecting myself and somehow managing to conjure everything anyone says to me into a personal attack, is another.

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Whenever I’d be faced with the undying fact that I was not feeling alright because of an exterior happening, instead of talking it out, voicing it openly and being clear-headed about why it had hurt me, I’d lock it up somewhere in the back of my head and when everything became slightly too overwhelming for me to carry on my own, I’d go on a subtly violent rampage. This would affect my immediate environment in the unhealthiest of ways.

“What I didn’t realise was that I was a victim of myself, by not talking, and by not setting boundaries.”

I’d hide in the bathroom, wailing. I’d throw porcelain figurines across my bedroom (angels, who all lost their heads). I’d scream into my pillow. I’d kick my mattress. I’d turn into that child throwing a tantrum in a shop aisle, all of this, from the ripe age of 25. I’d actively push people away and be highly passive aggressive because I felt like no one was listening. They didn’t love me. They didn’t care. If they did, they would listen. In the passive aggressive reactions door slamming was the most recurrent. Would they hear that, perhaps? For me, the sound of a door slamming was everything that I’d ever wanted to say. From the creaking of it closing, to the slam, to the echo it made in the corridor. To my ears, it sounded like the story that I wanted to so badly tell.

What I didn’t realise was that I was a victim of myself, by not talking, and by not setting boundaries. I had read so much about the subject of boundaries, because I’m an under-the-radar, self-help junkie, but had never internalised the fact that I was lacking them, severely. Whenever I would try to set them (in the poorest of ways), it would usually be too late because I’d have already gone through the rage-fuelled theatrical display of emotion. It would usually happen whilst drunk, which ultimately nobody took seriously. Many rolling eyes from friends and empty apologies from me later, I felt unheard, because nothing of importance was actually being said.

I was a toxic person because of my lack of communication. 

For as long as I can remember, I had been the person who was petrified of losing someone I loved, to the point where being truthful about them upsetting me from time to time was worse than sticking a dagger through my chest. I was never, ever truthful because of my fear of confrontation and abandonment. 

This lack of communication with my loved ones was me being the iceberg to their Titanic. They wouldn’t see me coming. They’d sail straight into me. I’d be forever chipped but alive, they’d sink and die. If I’d given them a heads up, aka, set the boundary, they’d have had a chance to see it coming and they’d most likely be alright. 

My responsibility as a friend, family member, loved one, even acquaintance, was to communicate. And I largely failed at it out of fear. I can’t tell you the number of times the words “you hurt me” were on my lips, but failed to ever leave them because of a fear of upsetting the other. I didn’t want them to feel bad for hurting me, so I’d not tell them. Instead, I’d slam a door.

Keeping all of this pain inside, repeatedly, made the iceberg into an island. People could now walk all over me and find themselves from time to time falling through a thin, invisible, slice of ice. This lack of communication of my boundaries made me into a slippery slope that the ones I love didn’t have a chance surviving on, because I never pointed out the right shoes.

Setting boundaries, reinforcing them and honouring them.

I have learnt that boundaries need to be set for one particular reason that resonates so much with me; the reason being that if I don’t, I’ll automatically pile up an immense amount of resentment and hurt and somewhere down the line, inevitably be toxic. It’s a massive learning experience that I’m still practicing.

When I come to notice something that is bothering me, ticking me off the wrong way, triggering me, pushing the wrong button, I now communicate it clearly to the other person in a straightforward and calm way. It can sound anything like the following: “What you said doesn’t sit right with me and here’s why” or “when my bedroom door is shut, I’m probably resting and that means I’m off-limits”. The greatest part of setting these boundaries is that it won’t make people run away from you and abandon you, it will help people understand you and respect you.

I’ve spent the past 4 months of my life tracking every moment in which I felt uncomfortable in a conversation. I have been openly asking myself: “In what this person did, what was the triggering moment for me?” and most times I’ll manage to assess exactly what it was and how to tackle it.

Stopping the relentless self-torture and moving on.

I’ve been sat here thinking I was being badly done to all this time, when I was actually the one doing most of, or at least, enabling all the bad. Don’t get me wrong, it takes two to tango, but what happens when you’ve hit the conclusion that most of what went sideways was all down to your own behaviour and lack of communication?

If there’s anything I’ve ever learnt the hard way, it’s that apologies don’t work unless you’re willing to change your ways. What if it’s too late, even for that? I’m glad to have come to the conclusion that it’s never too late to apologise to yourself. I truly, wholeheartedly believe that it’s the first and only step in acknowledging and slowly overcoming the pain that you have to go through when you realise you’re the angry film director of your own movie.

I’ve punished myself and others enough. I was wrong, I will do better. I’m going to get busy being the lovely human I really am. To myself first.

Words and art: Ajsa Zdravkovic