Kristin Hall: I cry goodbye to my emotional bluff

There is nothing good about goodbyes. I should know, I'm an expert at them.
My affinity for all things foreign has led me into a string of friendships that I've had to detach from at some point as debt, school or a set of increasingly concerned parents has forced the other half of the friendship back to the other side of the world - back to their real lives, real jobs and a future of nauseating responsibility. Different time zones, work schedules and a Vista with the dial-up speed of an echidna have meant my friendships have lasted, but not to the same degree, not the same closeness. Famous last words usually feature the ever-optimistic, "we'll keep in touch", "it'll still be the same" or the loathsome "there's always Skype". There is not always Skype.
Next time you're in some serious emotional strife, I suggest you try hugging a laptop.
It's not all that comforting.
Yes, while I wouldn't trade my overseas friendships for anything, the semesterly cycle of hysterical goodbyes is starting to take its toll on my sanity.
The worst part of it is keeping it all quiet.
Like any good passion-void New Zealander, it typically takes excruciating physical pain, a terminal leprosy diagnosis or the spontaneous massacre of several family members to make me shed a tear around my friends.
I am useless around emotional people.
While the more proactive, rational and motherly rush to the aid of their weepier friends with advice, back rubbing and a tear or seven to spare themselves, I instinctively turn into a brainless amoeba incapable of anything but witless grinning and producing my weight in what I like to call "hush-baking".
Hush-baking came to be at roughly this time a year ago.
Facing exams, an advancing case of scurvy and the departure of four-fifths of my flat, my usually concrete nerves were starting to get a little unhinged. Evenings were tense, conversation minimal and any reference to the words, "home", "leaving" or "aeroplane" were met with icy silence and death stares that could drop a horse from 30 paces.
As departure time approached, the coping strategies of the various flatmates became more obvious.
Ryan took any excuse to instigate profound theological conversation that would distract him from whatever he was actually thinking about.
Fran retreated to her room, producing nothing but muffled whimpering and a steady flow of waterlogged tissues and Yoann's fondness for whisky started to elevate at a medically concerning rate.
I had less reason to be upset, I wasn't going anywhere. I did not have to return to a psychotic girlfriend, penguin friendly temperatures or an extended family of Mormon puritans who had heard about my borderline un-saintly overseas activities.
I should have been the voice of reason. I should have provided intellectual counsel for Ryan, a soggy shoulder for Fran and an AA pamphlet for Yoann.
What did I do instead?
I walked to Countdown, bought four kilos of butter and force-fed my miserable flatmates sympathy brownie until they were too busy vomiting from sugar overload to be upset.
Every time I heard a sniffle, a sigh or even contemplated living without my three favourite foreigners, I simply cranked the fan bake to 180 and proceeded to drown my sorrows in berry cobbler.
While my overly enthusiastic baking was welcomed at first, the sheer rate and volume of my newfound pastime started ringing some alarm bells. The price of butter, the bill from the oven and Ryan's type 2 diabetes meant I eventually became the focus of the intervention.
My flatmates sat me down and demanded I tell them how I really felt.
I asked them if they would like some meringue.
Three crippling stares and what may have been a mini-seizure from Ryan told me they did not.
I told them I was perfectly fine and was just trying to look after my flatmates.
They told me I was a filthy liar. They were right.
It was only once my flatmates confronted my semester-long emotional bluffing that our six months of friendship, hours of life stories and days worth of fit-inducing laughter seemed to compile into one and erupt in the form of tears, violent shaking and wails that would scare Darth Vadar.
It ruined my meringue.
But that didn't seem important.
Once we'd admitted we were all miserable, it kind of made it OK, a mutual suffering - like a hunger strike or a live audience on Good Morning. They made me promise I'd never revert to evasion by baking again. And I haven't.
In fact, I've done the opposite for every flatmate departure since.
Every bag-packing session, goodbye hug and airport trip has seen me crumble into a pathetic mound of trembling sentiment.
It's not cool, it's definitely not public transport friendly and it does nothing to bolster my already questionable street cred but it's a lot healthier for everyone involved.
Besides, if making friends has taught me anything, it's that what you gain far outweighs what you lose when they go away.
My next round of flatmates are leaving next week.
I will be a mess, I will recover, and I'll talk to them every week on a mingy Skype screen while I try and get used to the new group.
Goodbyes may not be good but they can't be solved with brownie.