I called my friend ‘flighty’ in year 8. It took her decades to tell me how much it stung

In a gathering of old school friends, one told me I had called her “flighty” in year 8 during a (short-lived) period of disaffection in our friendship. In the scheme of things, “flighty” is no terrible insult but coming from a best friend it must have affected her enough to make a mark for decades.

I have no memory of having made that pronouncement on my friend but that is not surprising; we tend to remember more what is said to us than what we say. I, in turn, remember a friend being called “nanny goat” by an unpredictable and unreasonable classmate. Again, the insult was tame but its intentional disrespect was alarming. The gloomy reality of having to tolerate this turbulent character for three more school years led my friend and I to conclude that saying nothing was the most practical response. Nevertheless, the encounter hovered in our memories until it tentatively arose for discussion in adulthood.

Words are powerful. Once uttered, they can linger for years, lodged in some part of the heart or mind of a recipient, sending out signals like a grumbling volcano.

If they are harsh words they may cause a pain that aches with a constant freshness, like a shard of oyster shell in the toe. The hurt delivered can cause a ripple of changes in the afflicted, leading to the establishment of strong lines of defence aimed at protecting the individual against future blows. Charm, distance, humour and avoidance mechanisms might be utilised to protect the individual from being in a vulnerable situation again, even at the price of not living life to the full.

If the words are kind and affirming, they may lodge like glowing embers in our memory, shedding light and warmth. To revisit loving, encouraging words is to feel safe to grow without the need for self-editing, watering down or camouflaging oneself.

Another encounter with the power of words occurred in the setting of a hospital. My husband was seriously ill and the directness of the specialists’ responses to my questions felt like a physical blow to the stomach. How was it possible that I could still be standing, still breathing, in the face of such hurting grimness?

The pastoral care team facilitated at my fumbling request a visit by a priest. The priest attended and performed a sacred rite of healing. As the words of the sacrament were spoken, they seemed to hang in the air, their authority amplified by our need, by faith, by hope. It seemed as if those words of healing thrummed, seeking to draw the gaze of God to our plight, and that the veil between this world and the next became translucent. The words were comforting.

As days passed, a better scenario emerged for my husband. Scans had been revisited, the grim prognosis softened, confirmed by falling infection markers. Tubes were withdrawn. My husband’s body slowly began responding. Liquid foods were reintroduced and, days later, light food.

Days of preparing for the worst brings fresh eyes to living. There is no time for average habits, like gossip or speculation about the lives of others or for living one’s life in competition with, or seeking the approval of, others. There is no point in holding grudges. Our energy is wasted in such pursuits and there will be times when we need every bit of that energy to keep going.

Understanding better now the power of words and the need to handle them with care, I would be gentler with my friend if I had my time over, replacing my judgment of “flightiness” with “energetic” or “spirited”, some of my friend’s enduring qualities, and so remove the burr of the first memory.

As to the “nanny goat” insult, I’d like to think that now, in the same situation, I would ask questions, driven by genuine curiosity and an inability to comprehend the motivation for gratuitous meanness, so as to understand why the name-caller was being objectionable. Do such people lack insight into how they come across? I don’t know.

Words are precious. We leave a trail of them through our lives for good or ill. They are durable and do not wash away easily. Clive James tinkered with them as might a jeweller with a precious stone, delicately turning them until they caught the light. The skill lies not in having a view but in how one expresses it. Words can fall like a meteor, crushing all below them, or like a gentle rain, refreshing and soothing.

You are the playwright. You are the poet. There is an ocean of words at your disposal. You get to decide how your story is told and the kind of ripples they leave in the world.

Melissa Coburn is a writer.

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