Rye Meetings

Friendship

There are some people I meet who I am hopelessly fascinated by. We have this undeniable rapport that can't be replicated.

I often feel incredibly alone. That's a feeling I've had to swallow since youth. Ignored during recess. Blocked from sitting down at lunch. I'm confident the biggest culprit for my alienation was my blatant curiosity. And that really hasn't died down. I've just figured out how to channel it in a way that doesn't cripple me socially.

So when I find a person who doesn't make me feel alone, I can't help but smile. Not necessarily out of love, but more so relief. Relief that I am not unwanted by everyone.

Most people can make me not feel alone if there is work put into our relationship. But the people who make me feel real companionship from the start — those are rare people.

Who knows if they feel the same way about me — which is scary — but these people usually respond to me with likewise enthusiasm. So I don't think I'm wrong to think our rapport is mutual only if somewhat mutual.

I can't help but get a little down when I notice they've moved on or realized time has made us move on. With a silent sigh and a nod, I'm back to a world of relationships where I am never confident about my status with anyone.

My co-workers are the closest people I have as friends in my life. And a few of them I do consider my good friends. But I find when I say or do something a tad off, I see a micro-expression of disdain, confusion. Our relationship is in total jeopardy for that millisecond. And then they return to normal. I can only imagine they have an invisible tally of all the ways they've found me strange. I know I have that for myself.

As much as I enjoy these people, I doubt that enthusiasm would be there if I left to another state or country. But then again, isn't that most people? Maybe I'm romanticizing a bit. Regardless, our relationship is conditional at the end of the day.

I think that's the big reason why I write. To be immersed in worlds and relationships of my own creation. Because in those worlds, I don't have to fit in. I'm not part of that world like I am in this one. I can set the standards, the conditions for what's normal and odd there. In this world, I can control what I find normal and odd, but that will never 100% match with what larger society finds normal and odd.

That way, if I'm alone, truly alone, it's at least in the own glass bricks of my building.

#Monologue #Friendship

Monologue: Best Friends

I feel like Michael G. Scott whenever a friend explicitly acknowledges our friendship. Like I want to fucking bolt the hell out of there like I'm not the father on Maury or something. I like the initial warm feeling of acceptance, I enjoy that. But I hate the feeling that they may have latched onto a part of me that's not really me and continue to expect me to behave a certain way when there’s no guarantee.

It’s not like we're in a romantic or sexual relationship, and we’re not necessarily having a kid. But someone confessing that they are my friend gives me a feeling that I have an obligation. An obligation to take care of something that I didn't have to before. And a very small, but very, very loud part of me doesn't like that.

I never thought I'd understand this feeling of not wanting to define a relationship because I can be incredibly sensitive at times. But I do understand and it makes me sad because I know I shouldn't be this afraid to commit to a friendship or really most friendships for that matter.

I’m pretty sure I alienate myself more than I'd like to admit. I’ve made amends with the fact that I'll never really have a best friend. I will always be marching to the beat of my own drum, or rather my own playlist in reality. Part of me is capable of friendship — I have friends — but taking that a step further is with a declaration of a “good” or “best” is anxiety-inducing.

#Personal #Monologue #Friendship