My best friend loves me only when I'm broken

Have you ever noticed how some people find it so much easier to be your friend when your life is falling apart? They'll support you, help you out, offer genuine sympathy. But asking them to share in your joy—truly, genuinely celebrate your success? That's when things get complicated. That's when the envy creeps in, the resentment surfaces, and you start seeing people for who they really are.

That's exactly what happened with my best friend. At least, I thought she was my best friend. Before Megan came along, I didn't have any friends at all. And then suddenly here was this person showering me with attention, care, and support. She stood up for me—something even my own parents never did. Not once.

In school, I was the outcast. Nobody wanted to be seen with the fat girl who had terrible skin, limp hair, crooked teeth, thick glasses, and clothes that looked like they belonged on someone's grandmother. Obviously, popularity was never in the cards for me.

It all started back in elementary school, but my parents did nothing about it. They figured my body would sort itself out eventually—I'd hit a growth spurt and all my problems would magically disappear. Why waste time and money on doctors when nothing actually hurt?

They dressed me in whatever was cheapest. Mom saw no point in spending money on nice clothes I'd outgrow in six months anyway. The only criteria? Low price. Nothing they'd regret when it stopped fitting.

They took the same philosophical approach to my skin problems. "It's just a phase, it'll clear up on its own." The only doctor I ever saw was the optometrist who prescribed my glasses. But since my parents were warned my vision might keep getting worse with all the reading I did, they bought the cheapest frames they could find.

By middle school, even my parents stopped believing things would resolve themselves. What bothered them most was my weight. They blamed it on me not exercising enough and eating too much. After all, nobody in our family was ever fat—where did this little cow come from?

The worst part? I actually tried to fix it. I did morning exercises, watched what I ate, pushed myself. Nothing changed. My self-esteem sank to the bottom of the ocean and stayed there.

College brought no hope that my life would be any different. I was still overweight, still had dull hair and bad teeth, still wore those awful glasses. What was the point of dressing nicely when I looked like this anyway?

So when Megan decided she wanted to be my friend, I was completely thrown. She was one of the most popular girls on campus—gorgeous, slim, always involved in activities, always the center of attention. And she wanted to hang out with me?

I could hardly believe it, but I desperately wanted to. So Megan and I became friends. She took me everywhere with her, defended me when anyone made snide comments about my appearance, helped me get involved in campus life, calmed me down when things went wrong.

I was genuinely grateful to her because she opened up an entire world I'd been shut out of during my school years. People actually talked to me. They asked for my opinion. They invited me places and didn't mock how I looked. It felt like paradise.

Our friendship continued after graduation. Megan was still the star of the show, and I never challenged that. She was brighter, prettier, more interesting—that was just the natural order of things. But thanks to her, my life kept getting better. She got me a job at her company, something I never could have landed on my own. Honestly, with my complete lack of confidence, I wouldn't have even tried.

My love life was predictably nonexistent. I saw myself clearly—my appearance left a lot to be desired. And doctors? I'd absorbed my parents' philosophy: if nothing hurts, don't waste time on medical appointments. But then my teeth started hurting, so I finally went to the dentist.

The dentist examined me, mentioned my gums seemed unusually soft, and asked if I'd ever had my blood sugar checked. I had no idea. She suggested I see an endocrinologist. So I did.

The number of tests they ordered made my head spin. I had no idea the human body had so many things that could go wrong. But I did them all, and the doctor delivered the news: my hormones were a complete disaster.

What followed was months of treatment. Different medications, constant adjustments, endless lab work. Sometimes I felt worse before I felt better. But slowly, undeniably, I started to change. The weight came off. My skin cleared up. My hair grew thicker and shinier. I felt lighter inside, too. Of course, it wasn't just the medication—I changed my diet, started swimming, saw a therapist. And finally, finally, it was all working.

I was thrilled. I wanted to share every victory with my best friend. But for some reason, Megan didn't seem eager to celebrate with me. The better I looked, the less she called. The less she invited me anywhere. The more distant she became.

I couldn't understand what was happening.

My therapist suggested I have an honest conversation with her. The opportunity came at a mutual friend's birthday party. I hadn't seen many of our old crowd in a while, and they were stunned by my transformation. Everyone kept telling me how amazing I looked. Meanwhile, Megan grew quieter with every compliment I received, drinking more and more.

When I finally pulled her aside to talk, she was pretty drunk. The words just poured out of her.

She told me she was upset that I'd dared to change like this. Why did I even need to? Things were better before. When I asked, "Better for who?" she admitted the truth: better for her.

It's painful to learn that someone you've called your best friend for almost ten years was really just using you to feel better about herself. Of course, standing next to the fat girl with acne, she could skip makeup and still look stunning. Next to my insecurity, she shone even brighter. I was the perfect backdrop for her to sparkle against.

Now I don't know what I feel toward her. Part of me is still grateful—she did pull me out of my shell, filled my life with color and new connections. But knowing her true motives makes me question how genuine any of it ever was.

It breaks my heart that the friendship is over. For the first time in my life, things are actually going well for me.

And I have no one to share it with.