Now that I knew about Penina’s past, the friendship went deeper. We started regularly going out together, whether for lunch, takeout, or a walk. Eventually, we were going out every single day, and with each conversation, our friendship intensified.

As the oldest in her family, Penina carried many responsibilities, including running family errands and handling the weekly grocery shopping. I’d sometimes come along, since, being the youngest in my family, I often had spare time. Also, my two best friends had suddenly dropped off the map — one got married, the other had her second baby.

So if Penina was stuck home babysitting her many younger siblings, I would stop by to keep her company. Because I’m happy by nature, I sometimes take responsibility for the “happiness” in the room, so I’d come up with fun activities for the kids, and we’d turn it into a party.

Perhaps it was my lighthearted nature that appealed to Penina, who seemed to live in a dense darkness. Crack by crack, she began to reveal her heavy feelings and frightening thoughts. She spoke callously about life. She spoke about her family members, all respected in the community for their kindness and care, who were unaware or indifferent to the intensity of her emotional pain.

I didn’t know what to think. In all my visits to Penina’s house, I never noticed anything dysfunctional. It was just an active, busy household with parents who were often absent because of their myriad responsibilities.

“I’m going to teach the world a lesson,” Penina sobbed to me one day. “To show people they can’t treat others however they wish, that they can’t do what they like without repercussions.”

Forced to carry the emotional burden of things I’d never been through and didn’t understand, I began to lose energy. I didn’t have the tools to help her, and anything I said to comfort her was not enough.

Still, she clung to me. And I to her… because who else did she have? “I’d never manage without you,” she’d say repeatedly, bolstering my resolve. “You’re sustaining me. You’re keeping me healthy.”

This should’ve set off alarm bells in my head: If someone makes you feel like you’re their savior, it’s not healthy. But at that point, I was too preoccupied with my life to take note of how things were unfolding. I was busy with shidduchim, with work, with family gatherings, with community events.

One day, through tears, Penina released another bombshell. She revealed to me the abuse she had been through as a child and the subsequent guilt, shame, and pain.

Shocked and horrified, my view of the world began to morph. I started to see a world that is cruel, or at least pockets where there is no goodness. How can others be so happy when there is such intense suffering, I judged. I somehow felt it was my place to carry it all, to make up for all those who lived blindly, oblivious to the horrors of humanity hidden in our own communities.

I was shaken into action. To help my dear friend Penina, I felt I needed to be knowledgeable in the subject of the particular trauma she’d endured. I felt compelled to make sense of it, to understand why it occurs. I read articles and listened to podcasts on the right way to show support, about what to say and not say.

Penina made me promise that I wouldn’t disclose any of her secrets, even after her dying day. She gave me her personal email passwords and instructed me that, in the event of her death, I was to delete their contents.

In hindsight, why didn’t I see the red flags? How did I let myself get pulled into such deep waters?

But when you’re dragged in slowly, step by agonizing step, you see nothing else but the spark in front of you. You don’t realize how far you’ve been dragged until you stop seeing light.

When you discover that someone you know and have come to love, engages in self-harm due to the intense pain she’s in, you don’t question or doubt, even if there are gaps or inconsistencies in her painful narratives. As she relates the tales of how she has come to this place, you lose just a little bit more trust in the goodness of humanity.

When, despite all her pain, your friend presents with such normality to the public eye, you’re unsure of what to make of it. How can you know who is okay in this world and who isn’t when all people present the same? You start to view people differently, looking at them with distrust. What are they hiding? What are they really like?

MY conversations with Penina became longer, more intense, and more draining. I was emotionally drowning, but I couldn’t retreat. Not now. Who would be there to help Penina? I was her only confidante.

I felt forced to constantly choose between her and my family. Once, I was on the phone with Penina, and my mother interrupted, explaining that she needed to speak with me. “I’ll call you right back,” I promised. When I phoned back five minutes later, she greeted me by saying, “It’s okay. I sorted out my pain already.”

This should have been another glaring red flag. I’d done nothing wrong, but Penina made me feel culpable for her poor choices and self-harm. And I fell for it. I sincerely felt sorry for Penina and plagued with guilt for contributing to her pain.

During the summer, I was away on a family vacation, but I still felt compelled to answer Penina’s frequent calls. I would cloister myself in a quiet room to speak privately, instead of bonding with my older siblings and their children. The entire vacation, I was noticeably absent. Even when I was there, my mind was elsewhere, riddled with guilt and fear.

My parents didn’t realize anything was amiss because, outwardly, there wasn’t much of a change. I can carry a lot without people noticing. And the more intense my inner world is, the more outwardly fun I am to be around. True, I was on the phone a lot, but I often chat with friends or take calls from shadchanim. Who was I to tell my parents that every phone call was from the same person? That would be betraying Penina’s privacy.

On Erev Yom Tov, my house was buzzing because all my siblings had moved back in. I should’ve been helping my mother or just enjoying family time together, but then Penina showed up at my house.

“I was just passing by on my way to the grocery. Can you join me?” she asked.

I saw the pleading look in her eyes. “Sure,” I replied. But I should’ve stayed at home where I belonged.

At that point, I knew I needed to get help. I reached out to a mentor whom I respect tremendously, yet who didn’t know Penina, to protect her privacy. Despite my promise to never disclose the information, I knew I couldn’t handle the stress alone anymore.

I told my mentor the whole story. I spoke about the overwhelming guilt, fear, and confusion. I shared how this friendship had slowly destroyed my entire worldview and my belief in the goodness of humanity.

My mentor affirmed that, unfortunately, there is trauma in this world. There is intense pain. I don’t have to deny that. But I shouldn’t get lost in despair or give in to my belief that it’s a cruel world. “The reason it feels unbearable to carry your friend’s pain,” she added, “is because it’s beyond your pay grade. And it’s not your job. There are professionals who are trained to help carry trauma. Your responsibility, as a friend, is to guide and direct her to these trained professionals.”

I tried. I made it my mission. I spoke to Penina about the benefits of therapy and how it could help her heal. I pleaded with her to see a professional.

But she refused.

She continued to pour her heart out to me, and I continued to display and communicate love. But inside, I was burning out. The flame of compassion was slowly extinguishing, being replaced with consuming, raging anger.

Since she refused to get help, I was left holding her up. Me! Didn’t she understand that I lacked the tools, the expertise, and the wisdom to help her? Couldn’t she see that instead of saving her, I was drowning along with her?

I kept vowing to myself that I’d never  speak to her again. But I couldn’t follow through with my resolve. She needed me too much. “I would’ve given up long ago if not for you,” she’d repeat.

When I would behave in a lighthearted manner, despite the knowledge I carried, she would thank me excessively for being so “normal” even though I had been exposed to such raw parts of her.

Then, one day, she dropped another bombshell. The final one.

“I have something to tell you, but it’s going to be very difficult for you to hear,” she said.

I assumed this was just more of the same, since everything she’d ever shared had been difficult for me to hear.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her, ignoring the alarm bells blaring inside my mind. “I’ll always be there for you. Just like I’ve supported you until now, I’ll continue to support you. And I’m not going to judge you or think differently of you because of things you’ve gone through.”

But Penina was insistent. “This is different,” she said. “It’s been weighing on me, and I have to say it, but it’s so hard.”

She started crying. Real raw tears. Her emotions were so overwhelming that I was almost in tears. And with that, she handed me a letter.

A prettily worded letter. A skillfully worded letter.

It began with gratitude for our friendship. After that, there was a quick succession of simple, blunt sentences. She doesn’t understand herself. She doesn’t know why she did it. But there is a world within her mind that she has created for herself, and in the past months, that’s where she has lived. She can’t explain the strange need she has to live in this made-up world. But it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to live there because of me. She confessed that my forthright, honest nature made her feel so uncomfortable that she was compelled to admit the truth to me:

Everything she’d shared with me — all the abuse she’d endured from others, all the vivid details about her traumatic childhood — it was all made up. Lies. It was simply a fabrication of her very active imagination.

With that prettily worded letter, Penina shattered me to my very core.

I fled from the scene as fast as my feet could take me.

There aren’t words to adequately describe how I felt during those first few days. I was reeling, unable to find stable footing.

For a year, I had lived with truths that were made up. I had judged people based on lies. All the emotional energy I had expended to help Penina heal were for things that were nonexistent.

And yet… and yet. The pain in Penina’s voice — that was real. The harm she inflicted on her body — that was real. The basis upon which her pain was built may not have been reality, but the pain she felt was palpable.

Penina was clearly struggling with mental health issues, even if it was not abuse that triggered it. Her brain was so addled that it had created a cruel, dark world for her to live in.

And I was enmeshed in it, too. Through my friendship with Penina, and through my intense desire to understand abuse, self-harm, suicide, and depression, I had become convinced of the permanence of cruelty in this world, as I had once believed goodness to be.

Now there was a blaring crack of light, revealing truth, and it was blinding. The clarity was almost overwhelming. All the pain I couldn’t wrap my head round, I now didn’t need to. The responsibility I believed I had to carry, I was suddenly absolved of it all.

And shockingly, it was frightening. I had been entrenched in darkness for so long that letting go of it seemed impossible. I couldn’t just revert to my original smiling, carefree former self. Even though Penina had woven a web of lies, I’d been exposed to the dark underbelly of society. And it still existed.

I felt deceived, duped, abandoned… and alone. My closest friend, whom I’d spent most of my waking hours with, whom I thought I knew and understood, whom I’d trusted, who’d convinced me that I couldn’t trust others, had betrayed me. She’d brought me into the gutter and left me there.

Suddenly, I was the one who was presenting as okay, but was falling apart. Suddenly, I was the one judging others. How can you be so carefree? My world has been shattered. You’re so close to me, yet you have no idea what I’m going through. 

Combine all of this with guilt: How can I be so shattered by something so minor? People go through all sorts of horrific situations, and I’m crying like a baby over lies? To experience pain is painful; to experience pain and not honor your right to feel pain is crippling.

At work every day, I couldn’t look in Penina’s direction, and if our eyes met, I felt nauseous. Blaming her for her actions would’ve been useless because I, of all people, knew just how helpless she was. She was a slave to her pain, a slave to her difficult and depressive thoughts. She was so immersed in her own suffering that she couldn’t even discern the pain she’d left in her wake.

In my hardest moments, I was lovingly guided and held by my mentor. From the other side of the phoneline, she listened and cared as I spent hours crying, mourning people and a world I thought I could trust.

She carefully guided me on how to sever my friendship so that I’d have the space and time for healing and growth. She helped me see the yad Hashem — that I was in a gutter for a purpose. And from there, I’d grow.

And I did.

I reached out for help, because seeking professional guidance isn’t a weakness — it’s a sign of strength. I learned that I should not, and cannot, take responsibility for anyone other than myself. I wish every single person understood this truth: No one should ever put the responsibility of their well-being on you.

I learned how to redefine friendships. I used to think a loyal friend is someone who’s there for you, no matter what. Now I define it as a two-way relationship in which you care about each other and seek to help each other. If you gain energy and strength from each other’s company, that’s healthy; if after being together, you need to recharge… that’s not.

One of the main things I was taught in therapy was how to create boundaries — and to uphold them. Because a boundary isn’t a barrier; it’s what enables healthy connection. I slowly learned how to listen and care for others, and then let go. I learned to listen to my inner voice instead of dismissing it or relegating it to the back burner. I learned to be grateful for the abundance that I’ve been given.

I resigned from my job and accepted a new position elsewhere. I took a trip to Eretz Yisrael. I rekindled healthy friendships and family relationships that had fallen to the wayside. A smile slowly reached my eyes again, and laughter reached my soul.

When I had healed enough to have some perspective, I reached out to Penina for forgiveness, since I knew she was hurt that I’d dropped the relationship.

My forgiveness was rejected.

I cried because I had tried so hard to do the right thing, but I was still a part of someone else’s pain. I cried because, hearing Penina’s voice again, I realized how far I’d come. Yes, there is intense suffering in this world, but I’d learned that it’s possible to see beyond it. To trust in Hashem, to trust in His plan.

Back when Penina’s deception was still raw and fresh, I had wanted to write off humanity, to never trust humans again. To become a solitary, self-reliant individual. But my mentor said words to me I’ll never forget: “I promise you, even if you don’t see it now, there are some truly good people in the world.”

She was right.

I have found truly good people in this world.

And I’ve also found a stronger, wiser me.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 867)