Yesterday, someone asked me if I was making friends. I’m in a new place at a new job with new people. So, he asked if I was making friends.
He asked if I was making friends three days after my best friend’s wedding, that I was not invited to, and one day after the fifth year anniversary of another best friend leaving me.
He asked this after ten months of depression and during a time of extreme intorvert-ism and isolation.
He asked me this during a period of time where my life motto seems to be “I am better alone.”
So am I making friends? I mean, I see the people I work with. We laugh. We vent. We grab quick meals. So… I mean, I’m being pretty good at meeting acquaintances.
All these things rushed through my mind, taking time for only a beat of silence. I gave a fake laugh and said, “Uh… I don’t really need many friends.”
I said “many” instead of “any” because I’d prefer not to raise a ton of red flags, you know? But… I have friends. They’re just not here. And I feel like I’m at this point where I will keep the friends I have and just… you know, wait until they leave me too. And I don’t really want to make new friends and just have even more people leave me eventually.
But, hey, I mean, you can’t just say that.
I am broken in a way I have normalized. I have accepted my pain and believe the hope I have in healing is in vain. And I’m fine. I’m screwed up and my mind and heart are destroyed and confused and worn, but I am fine. And I will be fine.
Always keep fighting, you know? Because maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I can be healed. Maybe everyone won’t leave me.
But I have enough of my people. And, truthfully, I don’t have the desire or energy to find any more. So no, I’m not making friends. And that’s okay.