To Friend, Or Not To Friend, That Is The Question

Friends. Friends, friends, friends, friends. It’s always been a touchy subject for me.

In junior high I had one friend who made friends with an older group and so I integrated myself into their group.

Well, it was much less of an integration and more like a . . . hmm. More like this:

I didn’t talk much to them, they didn’t talk much to me, but I followed them around because the idea of standing against the wall alone felt too vulnerable. Eventually I met a group of people I jived with and who didn’t bring tasers to school and we were all socially awkward together. Some of those friendships have stood the test of time, and one in particular has got me thinking about the nature of said relationships.

I have been friends with this person for many years (12?) and while I endured college and psychosis, she bumped coke and crashed cars. Granted, I was the one who introduced marijuana to her in high school, but I had enough sense to know when enough was enough. She obviously didn’t.

Psychosis and anxiety played a part, I guess. Hard to enjoy marijuana when every hit increases the two things you’re trying to escape.

She’s not quite an addict. The coke stopped when she had her kid. Now that her and her “baby daddy” (dear Christ I hate using that phrase) have split, and he takes the kid some weekends, she’s back to hanging with losers. For a while I struggled too, dipping back into Marijuana even though it caused me to end up in the E.R and the psych hospital, and back into heavy drinking even though I’d wake up crying, depressed, ready to end my life. Now that I’m more settled in my decision to stay off medication, now that I’ve got more of a healthy routine down, now that I’ve recovered from my abrupt break-up, I’m ready to move on with life. And for some reason I felt myself being called back to my old friendship.

So I’ve been hanging out with her for a few months, and it’s been fun, we have a lot of memories together and our personalities are similar. But I’m multiple people: I’m a peer worker by day (and overnight sometimes), I go to trainings and enjoy doing wholesome things with my friends/coworkers who happen to be twice my age (I’m 23). I enjoy being able to have an intelligent conversation and still find humor in so many things. And by night I’d run around the streets with her, driving places, drinking, smoking, “enjoying my twenties”.

I’m over it. That got so old so fucking quick ya’ll. Am I an old person in a young person’s body or something?

What really broke the camels back, or whatever the idiom is, punched the camel, killed the camel, whatever– wow, all three of those are horrible. What’s really made this decision for me (that’s better) was last weekend. As we wandered downtown, some people were catcalling, and while I tend to have a disgusted attitude about this, she feeds into it. The attention she receives from men–she needs it to survive. I believe it’s an insecurity thing, but having a deep conversation with her is literally impossible.

So, she went back to the group and got one dudes number. We ended up passing them one last time, where she decided to sit on the sidewalk and make a scene, smoke some weed on the street corner. Of course the group migrates over to us and while one loser is trying to hit on me, the other loser doesn’t need to do much to get her attention. They decide they want to eat at a restaurant with us, and while I’m not opposed to “making friends”, I am opposed to being surrounded by fucking morons.

Both are in their thirties and have children, young children. Why didn’t I leave? I’m not the type of person to leave a “friend” with two older men we know nothing about. Especially since she was still reeling from the molly and rave of the night before. She didn’t have a car, and I didn’t trust either of them to get her home safely. And so I stayed. I endured. I threw a lot of shade her direction masked by humor, which got a few laughs at the table. Fine. I can be an entertainer.

At the end of the night (2:50am) they took off, after one of them smacking her ass, and I took her home. Although this encounter is relatively mild (besides the constant being hit on) the reason it struck a nerve with me is because this has happened once before with her and me. In fact, my dumb 16 or 17 year old high self got in the car with two older guys (maybe early twenties? or younger. Adults.) that she said were going to take us for a ride. She lied to me. Her plan was to lose her virginity to one of them because she “couldn’t graduate high school without having lost her virginity”, because that’s something colleges and jobs care about, whether you fucked some loser or not.

Put that on your fucking resume. Literally. Your fucking resume.

They took us somewhere I didn’t recognize, and that’s when I got angry. No one would tell me where we were. I got out the car when we stopped and was pissed. She got busy with the dude in the car. The other guy, his friend, tried getting me to kiss him, to touch him, e.t.c, and I had to elbow him in the chest to the ground to get him off me. I was very athletic, strong, and wasn’t in the mood for his fucking shit. He stopped after that. We waited. They took us back to the mall. I called my mom asking her to pick us up, and called my friend a whore. We didn’t talk for a while.

I realize I’ve held onto this friendship because I’m scared of being thrown to the sharks, of having to make new friends. I’ve never been good at it. Ever. But by being around the group I have been lately, I realize what true compassion and kindness and friendship is. I never experienced it before, really. I now realize we’re at different points in our lives. We’ve both had setbacks, and we both are struggling to get on our feet. The difference is I would like to balance and she prefers the wobble.

I hope it doesn’t take her son being taken away from her for her to get the fucking picture. Because I’m done. And I’m probably the only friend she had who would actually stick their neck out for her.

Not quite sure how to start this conversation with her.

Thoughts With A Bag Of Brownies


I just ate brownies. Even after this morning’s chocolate fiasco/stomach problems.

So obviously I was crazy this morning and posted “I’m Living A Lie . . .”

It’s all true but I don’t know if I explained it correctly.

There’s a divide there between what I care about and what I don’t care about.

I’m sure you all remember I like to glorify the little other personas I have and the persona that very much enjoyed my writing that is the same one that thrives on not giving a shit.

But it’s true–I don’t connect with people and I don’t really want to.

Sounds weird for someone who wants to be a psychiatrist but here’s the thing.

Remember, I said I care about people on a humane level. I care about you because you’re of the human race and I’m here to help you survive just like you’re here to help me survive. Helping people improve their mental health and see that their life isn’t an entire waste is helping them survive. Keeping them from being fucked over by doctors willing to over-medicate toddlers is helping them survive. That’s my ultimate goal in life.

I also have a boyfriend. That also seems contradictory to literally every single word in that other post.

There are few people in this world I can connect with, and there are few people in this world that I genuinely enjoy being around. He is one of them.

bfu-p0ciaaes1lvI was reading a woman on a forum talk about her boyfriend who had schizoid personality disorder and I was laughing. Not at her, or him, but at the irony. I am the same way as him in relationships–I’m very needy but very distant. I give all my attention to that one person because 1) I don’t have anything else to do 2) I don’t want to do anything else and 3) because it’s nice to be around people sometimes.

But whenever she couldn’t return the amount of attention he gave, he’d shun her as if she’d done something wrong. They went through a lot of trouble since they lived together and argued a lot and the relationship basically became stagnant.

My boyfriend and I don’t live together, obviously. But I can recount many situations through the year where I’ve done the same thing. I expect the same amount of energy I put into something even if it’s excessive to other people because that’s how I understand human connection. I don’t understand the concept of “other interests”.

I don’t understand the concept of “friends”.


Why would you want them? Why wouldn’t you just want to be with me, me, me? I’ve gotten angry over it too. I’ve gone through periods where I’ve ignored messages for a day or two.

That’s nothing compared to my social anxiety and uncertainty about close connection which has made me ignore people’s messages for months.

I feel guilty that they had to go through that shit with me, but more so that they came in contact with me at all.

Anyway, that post that woman made really resonated with me. I’m sure my boyfriend has been confused on multiple occasions by my behavior.

I’ve told myself now that it’s good and “normal” for him not to be obsessed with me. People need to have their own lives. I have to remember that I’m not like everyone else and everyone else is not like me.

I also have to remember that I enjoy being by myself. No wonder my motivation plummeted this semester: I haven’t been very true to myself these past few years.

I have to remember that the majority of my social anxiety is due to people judging me. I’ve always wondered why I felt such an intense urge that everyone hates me, that everyone thinks I’m weird and I’ve finally realized it’s because I have nothing in common with them. Of course I’m going to feel like they’re judging me!

i__m_different___portal_2_by_laggycreations-d4l5899My anxiety is over the fact that they know I’m different. I’ve never, ever hated myself or been depressed over the way I am. I’ve only ever been depressed over the way I felt other people saw me.

I sat in the corner in kindergarten and made patterns across the floor and all the kids were laughing and playing around me and you know what I remember? I remember distinctively not giving a shit. Yes, I was uncomfortable because everyone around me was having “fun” and interacting with each other and I knew it would be perceived as odd that I wasn’t, but I also did not give a shit. My pattern gave me solace. It ended up covering half the floor and my teacher took a picture of it. It was perfectly symmetrical might I add.

And I loved it! I wasn’t making patterns by myself because I was an outcast, I was doing it because I enjoyed it. It was everyone else  telling me I had social problems. I don’t have social problems, you just don’t like what I like.


What I’m trying to say is that  I’m not in any way invalidating my social anxiety. It is still very rampant. It still controls much of my behavior and is the main reason I stay indoors all day. If I didn’t have it, I’d be roaming the streets, just by myself. Just me and my music.

But there’s also a bit of a divide here I never noticed until I started diving deeper into my anxiety.

I don’t know how to make conversation. I should, and I’ll probably learn, but I still won’t like doing it.

I don’t know how to make friendships. I’ll probably make a few throughout my college career, but they’ll quickly fade when they realize I’m not the type of person to do a bunch of shit together all the time. I’ll eat with you, I’ll maybe take a day trip, but after that you need to leave me alone for at least two weeks. At least. And you better not be tryin’ to bring four, five, six, people with us because homie don’t play that.

Or not. I’ve been in college three years and haven’t made any friends. It just doesn’t interest me. In the four years of high school I made two new friends and that’s because one kept talking to me day after day after day and the other I was forced to have a conversation with and he just happened to be one of two people in my life I clicked instantly with. In junior high I had a group of friends who were like me only because they hated being around a bunch of people, they were “slow” in school so they weren’t very confident, and they loved the music I loved. Most moved and the ones who stayed eventually grew out of it. I didn’t.

personal-spaceI don’t like being personal with people. Being personal is weird. It’s weird and I don’t like it. I’ll be personal with myself, thanks.

I especially don’t like being close friends with women. Most of my acquaintances and friends are guys.

I like my one-on-one relationships. That’s about as much people I can take at once in regard to friendships. If I just have to talk to people in class, my limit is two other people. Once it hits three I kind of fall to the back burner because that’s when my anxiety kicks in the most.

Then I can’t think.

I go to concerts for myself, not the atmosphere. I could give a shit about the people. In those situations I’m so amped up my social anxiety is virtually non-existent. Standing in line sucks, but in the concert hall where it’s pitch black and no one gives a shit who you are and they know you don’t give a shit who they are, it’s the perfect type of atmosphere for me.

Parties. Hate them. But I experience them. I’m glad my boyfriend’s family is so close knit because it gives me a chance to experience someone else’s life. I’m not like them and I don’t generally enjoy being around so many people but the experience is good. Life is going to be full of that kind of stuff and if anything it’ll be good to help with the social anxiety.

I don’t have a general apathy towards people, but . . . I can be cold sometimes because I think of things logically. Within myself I’m emotionally all over the place. If I get angry, I get livid. If I get sad, I get deeply depressed. If I get hyper, I’m bouncing off the walls. If I get tired, I sleep for a whole day.


I remember talking about sawing bodies in that other post. Ignore that.

Or don’t.

I don’t really care.