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2001-06-20 | 10:20 a.m.

I have done a bad thing. I'm not sure what to do about it. I feel guilty, ashamed, and stupid. It makes my skin tingle. I walked around all weekend with an upset stomach. No one can comfort me because anyone would agree that I just absolutely bought this situation. Paid cash and signed on the dotted line. I brought it on myself. My bad.

I told my friend Maxine in an e-mail that I had been writing "a lot of short little nothings," meaning diary entries, and she asked me to show her one of my little nothings. So instead of cutting and pasting a diary entry into an e-mail, as I have done before, I just sent her the URL to the diary, forgetting that the only things I have ever said about Maxine in the diary were critical.

At no time in the diary have I ever mentioned how important she is to me, or how much I adore and love her. Why would I say those things? They are obvious to me. When I gave her the URL, I remembered one entry I had written, crabbing about her taking over my job, but I figured she could handle that. Big surprise, me not being gracious about losing my job. She is an understanding person.

But I totally forgot writing (CRAZILY, I now think--was I premenstrual?) about Maxine taking anti-depressants and working for less money than she was worth. At no point do I make it clear that the source of my irritation with Maxine is that I think she is 1) really together, not requiring medication, even though it isn't my place to decide, and 2) worth her weight in gold. I just criticize her, even though she is just trying to muddle her way through life the best way she can, like everyone else.

It's horrible.

I forgot I wrote that entry because whatever I felt at that moment had completely dissipated. Probably almost instantly. I do not carry around bad feelings about Maxine. When I think of her, it is all good. I didn't even remember that she was taking anti-depressants until I went back and found the entry. I don't even know if she is still taking them. Writing the entry vented my spleen so completely I couldn't even remember it later. When I read it, I wince because my reaction was so extreme; out of character even for me. I'd like to think so, at least.

And now, not having heard back from her in four days, I fear the worst. I know I ought to write to her, but I don't know what to say exactly. How can I undo those hurtful things I said? I ought to write some sort of tribute to her finer qualities, but maybe she will think that is coy. Or too little, too late. I don't know. And part of me, I am deeply ashamed to say, can hardly bear to admit that I have made this colossal blunder. I hate admitting that I have done something wrong. I have almost a physical need to defend myself, to explain what I wrote by contextualizing it. But of course, that is not the page I need to be on right now. I shouldn't be thinking about myself at all! Why am I licking my own wounds instead of comforting my friend? It is wrong.

Fuck. I want to end this entry right now. But there are more things I need to choke out. I need to excise my excuses for the time being and write something genuine about Maxine. Poor Maxine. She doesn't deserve to be ranted at by me. She has always been a generous friend to me. She is the kind of giving person who gets taken advantage of by people like me. She's a writer, she's very smart. Very kind. But she has a stubborn side, too. She's the best kind of person to do nothing with. To drive around town or sit on the couch and play gin rummy with. For the past year or more, she's been going through this major metamorphosis. She's gone into therapy, ended an unhealthy relationship, started exercising and taking music lessons, lost a lot of weight, and quit smoking. (Maybe that's part of my problem--maybe I feel threatened in some way by all these changes. Or maybe I'm jealous? Whoops, not supposed to be talking about me now.) You'd think I could find it in my heart to be super-supportive of her at this important time in her life, but I have been only sort of supportive. I haven't been UN-supportive, though. Argh. Okay, need to get back to Maxine.

I can't even really say why Maxine is my friend. My friend Shirl is the same way. There is no list of attributes and reasons I can write up that add up to a friendship. I've absorbed the reasons and they've become transparent to me. That sounds a lot like I'm saying I take her for granted, which is also true, but I don't think that's what I mean. I can tell you that when I left Iowa with my tail between my legs, or more correctly when I left town in the middle of the night, Maxine cleaned up several of my messes. She took care.

Ah, Jesus. I don't know what to do. I don't think she will come here and read this, because I think she is finished with my diary. So I have to contact her. I have to be big about it and face the possibility that she will not be happy; that she might be angry or hurt or crisp and cool. I don't even know how she will be. She's just always been really nice to me.

It occurs to me that the response I am having is more typical of men. (Not all men, but some men, definitely.) Or maybe I've just been conditioned to think of it as a male response. I don't really want to talk about the problem. It seems really hard to talk about, and the more I grope around for the words, the more they seem to elude me. So I just want to buy her flowers and have her forgive me because I really DO love her. Even if it doesn't seem that way to judge by my actions.

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