I met Sarah (not her real name, of course) when I was in High School. We didn't hang out together much, I was pretty popular and she wasn't: I was one of the cool kids, dating the pretty guy and always surrounded by friends. It was a relief after the disaster that middle school was. Anyway, we met again at University, where we both studied English, and became friends.
Friends, as in, I tell you everything, we're twins, we're always together. Cute. Except that we were 18 years old, not 14. Makes it less cute.
Even less cute when you know that she suffered from bulimia, that she tried to make me break up with my then soon-to-be husband (and now soon-to-be-ex-husband).
Not so cute when you know that she started to say nasty things about me to all my friends, with whom she had made friends with because she had none of her own.
Not cute at all and even scary when the long haired brunette she was turned up at my door one day with short blond hair, I swear, my exact shade.
Just creepy, in fact, when you know that she went to my hairdresser to make sure she got the exact same look.
I told her to go see someone, to get help. I called her mother, telling her that she needed to take care of her, that she was in bad shape, that I just couldn't do it any more. When my friend found out I had done this, we had this huge fight. She yelled and screamed and I kicked her out, telling her I didn't want to see her anymore unless she started seeing a shrink or something. My other friends kept seeing her for a while, and some even had me pegged as the "evil girl who won't help her friend." But they soon let her go when they realised she was repeating the same pattern with them.
I think of her, from time to time. I wonder how she's doing. I wonder if I was a bad friend. I wonder what else I could have done. And then I shrug and I go back to my life, thankful that I don't have to deal with Single White Female anymore.
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