I’m coming to terms with my perception of friendship changing. It makes me sad in ways. I used to place a high value on people I called friends, or rather those I considered myself close to from my perspective. A part of me sees that having that emphasis isn’t always reciprocated. The, “just put yourself in spaces and talk!” doesn’t seem to matter, because it seems forced and one-sided. I regret speaking. Listening to others’ interests and ambitions, and being fully invested in conversation – to it being my turn to speak, and it seeming like the other person doesn’t want to engage with me. The attempts to check in and rekindle things, because things do get really lonely — futile. Always wanting to go out my way to see people: the lofty ideas of wanting to book flights or make drives in my own state: crickets. I get that people have their own friends and their own lives. I don’t think I fit. Even with the attempts of people making effort to include me, it feels…too good to be true. Feels like it’ll only last for a certain amount of time and then I’ll expire. It should be ok: I should be used to this sort of thing.
There’s people I valued that didn’t show up when death came. There’s people that showed up with…off putting comments and hurtful things. There’s people I’ve given my last for, and asking for help being met with avoidance. There’s the instances of being friends with people that see me as a meal ticket, or the opportunity to fuck. Typing this out makes me cry – it’s no big deal in reality. Except, it is to me. I valued friendships a lot. I haven’t been the greatest friend. Being honest and direct is met with distance or being told off…just for someone to come back and say I’m right, to have things go back to how it was. I’ve learned to be silent more. Don’t vent, because I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want anyone looking at me sideways. Being there as if things are good, just to be talking down on me with others. Being asked for my input and it not being valued or respected. I hate being told that if I ever need to talk or anything, that I can reach out. I’d rather be out the way at this point. I don’t know what to say anymore. I don’t know what to share. I don’t want to care. I walk around as if I don’t in real life. It eats at me, truly. It gets to where you’re at a certain age where it’s hard to make friends. Even with acknowledgment of my insufferable years and tendencies, trying to “reintegrate” equates to forcing myself where I don’t belong. Where I’m not necessary. Where my words truly don’t matter, regardless of, “you’re a voice, you choose to hide in the shadows”. Oh well. Life keeps going, the world keeps spinning.
