November 24, 2019

 Photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash 






by Shannon Frost Greenstein



Whatever you do…don’t marry your best friend.


Wait…what? What was that?


Yes. I’ll say it again. Don’t, under any circumstances, marry your best friend.


I know. It’s mind-blowing.


You’re welcome.


And that, to be clear, is the best advice you’ll ever receive, if you’re anything like me. As I understand marriage, if I can tell you anything about marriage, after ten years of marriage, about your best friend and marriage, the best friend whom you’ve known for fifteen years, since you were 22, since you were a baby, it’s that you should NEVER marry your best friend.


I should know.


Because I did.



Your best friend will badger you. Your best friend will nag you. They will yell at you. They will break your confidence and your trust, go behind your back, tell you untruths to get you to do what they want. Your best friend will be a thorn in your side and a yoke on your back, and if you happen to have married them, it’ll be that way for the rest of your life.


When you marry your best friend, you answer to your best friend. Your best friend holds you accountable. Your best friend speaks to you objectively, honestly, with your own best interests at heart, even when you cannot keep them there yourself.


Your best friend will care for you, even when you’re so furious at them you wish they wouldn’t, wish they would just go away, and you wish it so hard you say things to hurt them. Even though it’s really yourself at whom you’re furious, even though the words are fuled not by conviction but by self-hatred, you say things to hurt them. And then you’ve hurt your best friend.


You shouldn’t marry your best friend. They won’t let you self-destruct.



I was at a club to see a band, and he was in the band, and I noticed him right away. I noticed him again at various points, and finally, as I sat outside on the club’s stairs smoking a cigarette and shaking off the residue of a social-anxiety induced panic attack, noticed him loading instruments into a van in a parking lot.


He came over to me with his hand outstretched.


“Would you like an Altoid?”


Naturally, Altoids are a thing for us now.


I took an Altoid.


We got to talking, and I still remember what we said: We discussed Carl Jung. In my defense, it was the first thing I could think of to talk about with a cute boy who was paying attention to me as I struggled to act normal in a crowded club…me, to whom no one paid attention, which explains why I thought talking about Carl Jung was a good idea.


I’d like to say that we had a long and insightful journey getting to know each other, slowly learning little tidbits and idiosyncrasies about one another, but that would be a lie. I’d also like to say we didn’t end up in bed on the first date, but that would be a lie, too.


The point, though, is that I met my best friend and fell immediately in love, in an instant, in a Tony-and-Maria-meeting-at-the-dance-in-West-Side-Story moment, so that when I eventually became his wife, we had been best friends first.


I married my best friend.


This is what happened.



My eating disorder has been decades-long, my companion for more of my 37 years than not.  It waxes and wanes, going into remission, rearing itself during relapses, always at the foundation of my living experience but varying in the noise that resonates through my cerebellum, calling me names, convincing me of my worthlessness, desperate for control, desperate for bone, desperate for relief.


There have been good years and bad years, but when you’ve been with your best friend as long as I have, it’s a mathematical probability that they’re not only going to experience the good years. And now we’re coming perilously close to why you should never marry your best friend.


When you marry your best friend, you’re unable to hide this from then. Despite however hard you may try, they are going to notice; they are going to notice you losing weight, and isolating, and self-harming, and drowning in complete existential misery.


And meanwhile, while you’re suffering, your eating disorder is fighting back. It senses your best friend’s concern, and perceives them as a threat, and will fight tooth and nail for survival. It tells you your best friend is lying. It tells you being thin is more important than your best friend’s feelings. It makes you draw into yourself, to block your best friend’s attempts to help. It will fight you to the death, one way or another.


Your best friend is going to fight the eating disorder, fight it as hard as they can. There will be arguments if you marry your best friend like this – oh, the arguments. There