On the first day of 5th grade, I went to sit at the desk with my name tag. A few minutes later, I was joined by someone whom I had never seen before, and upon asking her name, I heard her heavy British accent clear as day. We began a friendship primarily because my hometown is not a place that I would describe as easy to stomach, and as someone who had lived her entire life there, I proved to be a useful transitional guide. I would spend hours listening to her grievances with our city, trying my best to assure her that it would grow on her.
Six years of friendship later, nothing much had changed; the original basis of our friendship had evidently set the tone for its entirety. Even after all this time, most of our conversations still revolved around her problems or grievances, and while I had never minded being the primary ear that lent itself to listening, at some point, however, I realized that in all that listening, she had not learned a single thing about me. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t particularly enjoy talking, but an occasional question about myself would’ve been common courtesy (I keep my answers short anyway). On one instance, she had picked up my phone to look on Google for a place to eat, and I told her that my password was my birthday. After spending my birthday together for six years straight, I had assumed she would type in the number without hesitation. Instead, I was met with a blank look; she rambled off multiple panicked guesses, all a couple of months off. From there, I let the friendship fizzle. She had been the only person I had considered a friend up until that point, and I used this as proof that my own company was, in fact, the only good company. Upon our fizzling out, there seemed to be an influx of people during class interested in asking me questions about myself (a foreign experience for me)—they would eventually become my friends and the people who would help change my mind about the value of friendships.
Pulling myself out of that emotional hole was nearly impossible when I had someone in my life who wouldn't let me.
Among this newfound harvest of friends that had sprouted from the gravestone of my past friendship was someone I had known in passing since I was twelve. We shared a soccer locker room in 7th grade and an English class in 8th grade, but it wasn’t until halfway through high school that we exchanged any more than a couple of sentences. I think a special kind of bond is created with the friends one makes during the most emotionally tumultuous periods of one's life — We were this to one another. We became close to one another primarily because we shared the feeling of being in a seemingly unconquerable emotional rut. We grew our friendship on the mutual understanding of our shared emotions, and we served as each other’s crutch. It is true that misery loves company, but at that point in our lives, it seemed like our misery very much needed company, and we found that comforting company in each other.
For years, we were able to support each other in this way, but after a while, I felt like I began to realize that pulling myself out of that emotional hole was nearly impossible when I had someone in my life who wouldn’t let me. My having a good day or making plans to do something fun with other people was often met with the same reaction she gave to those who talk too loudly in the library.
Overcoming emotional turmoil is a non-linear process, and it varies depending on the person. In retrospect, however, there was definitely a problem with having a friendship that encouraged me to get worse rather than better. I have by no means ever been a particularly optimistic person, but I do believe there is a time and place for my realist perspective, and I can often adopt an air of optimism for the sake of the people around me. This friend seemed unable. At one point, nearly a year before our friendship officially ended, a mutual friend of ours was struggling heavily, and instead of offering any sort of truly productive advice, my friend said, “Some people have good lives with bad moments, and others have bad lives with good moments; you just have a bad life.” It was an eye-opening statement for me. I realized our support for one another might’ve been helpful at first, but at this point in our lives, we just fed into each other's self-pity. Despite realizing the unhealthy nature of the friendship, it didn’t end till much later, a decision that was made for me. My text messages and phone calls to her eventually began to go unanswered, and that was it.
I have always been a solitary person. I was especially resigned to being alone as a kid, having most of my conversations with myself. In fact, for nearly a decade and a half of my life, I was convinced that I would enjoy no one else’s company more than my own. While I maintain that it’s important to love being in your own company, I did eventually come to see the merit in having friendships. Your own company might fulfill the basic levels of your hierarchy of needs, but the company of others, as I eventually came to learn, is what adds depth to your life.
Your own company might fulfill the basic levels of your hierarchy of needs, but the company others, as I eventually came to learn, is what adds depth to your life.
I’ve never had more friends than fingers on both my hands, and it usually takes me months (or sometimes years) of constant communication before I can confidently consider someone my friend. Perhaps my close attachment to my friends is what has made friend breakups a particularly hard experience to stomach. Out of the long list of things I often return to ruminate on, my past friendships are at the top. Whether it was I who decided to cut ties or the other party, for me, I have always had such intense emotions surrounding the thoughts of my friendships that are no longer. There is something to be learned from each of these experiences, and perhaps this might finally be my escape from the urge to beat the dead horse.
