'I've been attracting trauma friendships my whole life and I've figured out why.'

If there's one thing you need to know about me it's this: I am a people pleaser.

I will bend over backwards to make something good happen for someone else. I am forever planning parties to celebrate other people. I am riddled with guilt whenever I'm behind on messages in my group texts. I will admit to almost anything under pressure because my head tells me that if it takes a problem off someone else's plate, then that's a good outcome. I've even been passively aggressively given books about being a people pleaser by my colleagues because I'm that much of a pushover. 

At this point, it's a chronic condition, and it has one major side effect: It attracts trauma friendships. 

These are a special breed of friendships – ones that are rooted in or circulate around a particularly prickly situation. They involve the person actually experiencing the trauma to seek support and solace in someone else. In the best-case scenario, the supporter provides an outlet or safe space for them to vent. But in the worst-case scenario, the supporter becomes a dumping ground. A slightly septic vat of toxic trauma waste.

That second, spicy variant of trauma friendship I have been through multiple times. 

***

The first time I clocked it was when I was deep in the problematic depths of a trauma friendship. And when I say I clocked it, I'm lying – because of course, I didn't see it. But my mum did. She saw the giant red flags flapping around and pulled me in for a conversation.

"She's dragging you down, love. The colours faded from your cheeks and you're tense. All the time. And it's because of her. I know she is."

I had been supporting my friend through her separation from her dropkick boyfriend. She had dated him for two years and I had disliked him for that entire time. He was spiteful and rude to everyone bar Cassie*, but in the months leading to their breakup, he had turned on her too. He had been judging her, gaslighting her and making her feel so small. In one argument he told her she was 'unloveable' and that she should be grateful for him staying with her – indicating that some sort of debt was owed for his generosity. 

The second my friend confided in me that this had happened, I got straight into action mode.

I got her out of her place and moved her into mine. She didn't live with him, but he knew her address and would turn up unannounced to try and 'make things work' – which almost always resulted in him getting pissed off and then he would shout, make her feel awful and storm off in a hump. 

I contacted her work and made her excuses so she could take some time off. I spoke to her mum for her, because that was a complicated relationship in and of itself and needed to be handled carefully. That resulted in me getting screamed at by her mum for 'taking her away from a good man', but I persisted and copped the criticism. It was what Cassie needed me to do. 

Cassie texted and called me non-stop – running through messages he had sent her, asking what to reply, walking me through her feelings about everything and craving validation, compliments and an ever-flowing tap of adoration from me. Her cup was so emotionally empty, and I was there to fill it up with all the goodness I could.

I paid for everything for the three months she lived with me. Food, ubers to and from wherever she needed to go, coffees, wines and spa days so she could properly relax and get her mind off things.

I did this all with zero hesitation. I wanted to help. I wanted her to feel safe and loved and supported and at home. So I made my home hers. It made perfect sense to me. 

And it did help. She felt better, stronger and more confident by the minute. Her shattered little heart had started to piece back together, and she was getting back to the Cassie I knew and loved. 

But then things took a turn. She wanted to see her ex again, and I, of course, advised against that. I told her it was a terrible idea and it would undo all of the beautiful progress she had made. But she ignored me and went back to him.

They didn't get back together officially, but they would meet up. She would tell me she was going to see him, text me the entire time and would reference that he was getting angry and then she would stop replying to me. My head went straight to the worst-case scenario every time and I would panic.

Had he hurt her? Where was she? Was she safe? Should I try and find her?

What then followed was a wild goose chase of me trying to find her. I would hop in the car and drive to the spots she may be at, trying to call her, text her, and figure out what was going on. It would usually be around the two-hour mark that she would reply and say, 'I'm all good, just put my phone on silent while we watched a movie. But if you're out and about, I would love a pick up to head home? Feeling pretty sleepy now xx'

I would then drive to her, avoid him, scoop her up and take her home to my house.

Because she was in a state of recovery and I didn't impose any 'rules' or restrictions around her staying with me – other than one: He was not allowed inside my home. 

When I came home from work with arms full of groceries to cook up Cassie's dinner, I dropped them on the kitchen floor with a thud. He was there, on my couch, watching TV with her. 

I was furious. It was the one thing I didn't want to happen. It was something that made me worried for her safety, but also for mine. She had ignored my one rule and by the look on her face, she didn't even register that it was a problem.

"Oooh, what's for dinner?!" she said. 

"Better be something that can be whipped up quick – I'm starving!" he followed. 

My body felt white hot and pins and needles stabbed my skin. I could feel the tears building up behind my eyes. I was equal parts enraged and completely crushed. 

But I did what any people pleaser shackled to their core purpose of prioritising others' comfort does: I cooked them dinner. 

***

Cassie eventually stopped seeing him altogether. It was her call, but one I was so thrilled about. She still had wobbly moments where she craved texting him, but whenever that happened I would remind her that she could text me instead. Send me what she wanted to say to him so she could get it out of her system but with none of the ramifications. 

She would send me that message, and I would craft a unique reply every time that told her how wonderful she was, how strong she was and how she was making the best decision for her future self. 

She stayed living with me until she decided she wanted to move to the beach. She packed up her things, walked out the door and said, "We should get drinks sometime".

Since she left I've heard next to nothing from her. She doesn't really reply to my texts, she has never asked me how I am. She turns up to some events with our wider group of friends, so I know she's okay – but I think that's the key part. She's okay.

She doesn't need me running her errands, being a shoulder to cry on, or offering up a comforting place to stay. She's all good. And when there's no trauma to fix, help, remedy or fight then there's no friendship.

***

Cassie is one of four friendships like this that I've had. And while in the thick of them, they really have the ability to take the wind out of my sails, there's some satisfaction in knowing that my bending over backwards helped them through a particularly tough patch in their lives. 

...I'm well aware that certifies me as extra f**ked up level of people pleaser. But maybe that's my jam. I magnetise mayhem. I draw in drama. And while I never wanted any of this for myself, because I will simply never say no to someone who needs me, I'll keep trucking through every trauma friendship that heads my way. 

Image: Canva + Mamamia.