The Toxic Secret Language

“Has she replied?” my friend asked on our group chat where I had vented earlier about my most recent drama.

I suspected the answer was no but I was compelled to open my Whatsapp to check.

My heart dropped when I saw the profile photo had disappeared. While I expected her to change the profile picture that included my dog, I didn’t expect to be confronted with the unwelcome grey generic picture — generally reserved for blocked contacts.

I immediately messaged to ask if she had deleted my number (don’t ask me why, I myself don’t know) and proceeded to maneuverer the psychological mind-field that followed.

The message was not delivered.

Most millennials by now can tell the difference between no internet, unsaved phone number and blocked phone number. We know this because we are ourselves guilty of using these subtle changes as a form of communication. The same way we end a conversation with liking a message on Instagram or how we remind our exes that we’re still there by liking their photos and — in my opinion, the worst of them all — how we communicate our disinterest by leaving someone on those dreadful blue ticks where the conversation clearly merits a response.

These are concepts that we are familiar with, a sort of secret language that we speak. Which in my humble opinion, is utter bullshit.

I spent the evening ranting to my two friends about the situation; how I had been left alone on my birthday, how I’d had to basically beg her to tell my why she was upset and how appalled I was at the response. How I was brushed off with a “cba”, how I had tried my hardest to articulate my thoughts in a non-insulting way and how I was faced with those blue ticks and no response.

The narrative that I’d heard was that — and I didn’t even register this as an event at the time — I had created an intense situation for calling someone out on their white privilege going through US customs where I would be undoubtedly strip-searched for having a bomb up my ass, because that’s where all Middle-Easterns carry theirs, it was later pointed out to the irony of the argument because in reality, with my current passport, I wouldn’t even get the visa to begin with so my problem starts way before getting to American soil.

I have since then been told that the appropriate thing to do was to acknowledge their hardship before expressing my own — I assume anyone reading this will have their own opinion on the matter and even now I’m unsure what the correct response is or would have been, because issues of racism and racial profiling are way too complicated to be discussed casually and with fragile egos.

This, combined with my strong stance on the flu vaccine alienated someone who I considered to be one of my closest friends to an extent that they left my dinner party very briefly after I cleaned everything up (after I’d spent hours cooking and the whole night making cocktails and serving dinner).

While I was disappointed to not even be celebrated on my birthday — the first birthday away from my parents — the real hurt came later. It came from being brutally cut off without any explanation. It came days later when I found out she had blocked me on Instagram, an act reserved purely for psycho exes and Tinder creeps in my books.

I have been dating in London for 4 years. I have had my heart broken in every way imaginable. I have dumped and been dumped, I have ghosted people and been ghosted myself, I have parted amicably and needed to block some people, I have been blocked by some and left on read by others. I’ve had the full spectrum of experiences and for that I’d consider myself a pretty indestructible woman.

And I can say, with full confidence, being brutally dumped by a close friend is one of the most painful experiences anyone can go through.

With men, I have a toolkit. I have a booklet that helps me translate, a memo I received way back in the day. I have girlfriends on speed-dial that come running with ice cream, booze and crappy movies. If they block me, I have friends that can find them. If they don’t reply, I can hide behind my anger at their immaturity. I can jump on the feminism train and ride that to solace. I have an arsenal that gets more packed with every blow.

But with friends, I am disarmed. I am left confused and stumbling. I yearn for answers I will never get. The strike is from within the ranks. It is an inside job, a double agent. I don’t just need time to heel, I need time to process, to digest, to comprehend.

I took time to backtrack my steps, to understand at which point in the year I’d known her I’d offended her. I questioned my actions, my behaviors, my beliefs. I nitpicked at everything I’d said, every interaction, trying to find answers I can be given so easily, answers that’ll never come. It’s the psychological equivalent to self-harm.

And I exhausted myself to the point of a 1’122 word rant. A rant that is more of a plea. A request. A PSA.

As millennials, reading this, I urge you to reconsider the next time you’re in a conflict, the next time you’re supposed to have a tough conversation, the next time you consider ghosting, the next time someone is pleading for closure, rise up to the occasion and do your best to be understanding.

And if you think you don’t have the emotional capacity to handle it, get a therapist. Deal with the trauma that stops you from showing up. Because if someone lets you live in their house for 10 days, maybe giving them an explanation for why you are cutting them out of your life is not too much to ask.

This isn’t a question of racism or being emotionally aware, it’s not even about right or wrong, it’s a question of compassion. We are going through something traumatic as a generation, and we are all going through it together. And if we are to survive, we need to not only show up for ourselves, but to show up for others. Our emotional capacities go way beyond what we can ever imagine, so saying “cba” is not now nor will it ever be an acceptable response to a friend’s cry for an explanation. We should not let the technology that’s supposed to bring us together be the thing that makes us forget how to authentically communicate.