On the Pursuit of Friendship Part Two

       There is a moment. There always is.

       There’s a part in some movies, mostly within surreal or absurdist genres, where everything seems completely normal. A couple has a conversation over chai lattes in the corner of the coffee shop. The tiny bell on the entrance door dings as a young man walks in to order. Quiet unrecognizable chatter fills the few empty chairs, everyone profoundly engrossed in their routines, their timelines unwavering. And the lead character seems overwhelmingly like they are not a part of this background. Suddenly, as they notice this lapse in time, everyone in the room turns to look at them in strange unison. Like something is suddenly off. Like everyone becomes aware together that they are part of this one person’s world. They’re all staring at this one person, deadpan and silent.

       I can feel this moment on my skin. The air seems to thin and then thicken. In real-time, I can identify the moment a group of people realizes that I am not entirely with them like a pinprick. They know that I do not belong to this shared experience.  I will be laughing along with a joke or listening to a story being told, and then out of nowhere, I am reminded that no one asked me to participate. I was never invited to indulge in this social experience. I do not belong to this moment.

            I’ve been wondering a lot about this lately. Am I being deliberately left out, or am I excluding myself under the pretense that I’m some kind of victim to these seemingly otherworldly genuine connections? Is everyone hyper-perceptive to my condition or am I just too self-aware? I know it’s likely self-sabotage in some regard, but I feel like I’m the last part left to an IKEA bedroom set after everything is put together and standing. Why do I feel so displaced? How is it that I can relate more to real human characters in television than I can relate to real human characters?

            This is a strange thing to admit to begin with. I’m withdrawn, but I’m not reclusive. I’m innately an introvert, but I have extroverted tendencies, especially in social situations that require it. But I can turn it off like a kill switch and without much warning. At work, I would be described as loud, confident, and personable. To people I just meet, they often point out my smile and comment on how uncommon it is to be received so genuinely. It must be in my nature, I’ve heard people say. But, on the way home from work I turn up the music so loud, I’m practically drowning in the sound. Sometimes I get compelled to drive around my neighborhood in circles, never going home. When I have a conversation with someone, I feel like there is a sheet of glass between us. I want to believe in everything I say, but I’m a liar. I’m not that positive, upbeat, workplace character. I am quiet, insecure, and unapproachable, which is why it’s so difficult to maintain friendships. I distance myself.

            At first, I thought that friendships were so unreachable because everyone around me just didn’t appreciate me and all of my intricacies. They didn’t understand the level of effort I was willing to put into our relationship. They didn’t see how much I cared. But after three big friendship fails in my lifetime, that math doesn’t add up. The common denominator is me. And now I am hurting because I’ve taken myself entirely out of the equation. Whether it’s because I won’t admit that I’m wrong, that I’m upset, or feel threatened in some way, I back out of the experience. And when we go through a quiet friend break-up, I’m the only one feeling the casualty. I feel it like a series of tremors in my heart. These are the people that have abandoned me in some of the worst times in my life and it’s my fault they know nothing about it.

            A recurring thought that I’ve had lately is that I loved before my time. When I was a teenager, I cultivated a sense of love I couldn’t comprehend at such a young age. While other kids were wondering how to acquire alcohol for a party, I was weighing my love prospects in pro-con list format. Nobody knew how to reciprocate those feelings, which were intense and rabid and paramount to everything for me. Boys would turn away from me punch-drunk and I was left with heartbreak building in my throat. Maybe I hold so much weight on my friendships as I always have with my romantic relationships, so much pressure; I stifle them before they can even grow. I am Lenny smothering rabbits.

            And when I have been lucky enough to entertain the idea of a friendship, I end up feeling outgrown. Like everyone else was born with this intrinsic ability to relate and then somehow collaborate their lives. Instead of reveling in this natural growth period, some force always stops me. I’m always stuck in this interpretation of the present and everyone else around me is propelling forward. They move in strokes and I’m waves behind. I don’t know why friends leave, but they often do, and I can’t compel myself to chase after them. Maybe if I could get out of my head, at least for a moment, we’d still be friends. Maybe.

       I thought that by writing this, I would somehow gain some kind of closure, or at the very least clarity—but maybe all that could be gained from this is a small amount of comfort knowing I’m not alone in this unending pursuit of friendship. We could all be alone, together and then, maybe one day our worlds will finally converge. Until then, I'll be caught in the moment.