I like the idea.

burdened-heart1I like the idea of friends and that sounds ridiculous. Of course you like the idea of friends, Faithe. Everyone likes the idea of friends. Duh… Yada yada… Find something else to write about. But I think it’s an important thing to mention. I mean, this blog is meant to sort out my thoughts. To help me figure out who I am and to do that I need to know and acknowledge what I like and dislike. And I like the idea of friends. Ridiculous sounding or not.

I can say that I’ve always liked the idea. When I was younger I used to try and form “best friend triangles” to attempt to mimic the Harry Potter trio. I wanted so badly to be Hermione and have my own Harry and Ron. I was obsessed with the thought, quickly befriending two boys. My Harry had circular glasses and My Ron was cute, freckly, and red-headed. I loved My Ron the most, secretly, of course. Honestly, until now I had never realized how close to my fantasy I had once been, but that’s why they’re fantasies, they’re not meant to last. Mine didn’t. It ended fast and abruptly. My Ron moved away leaving me devastated and basically friendless. I had invested so much time in being friends with My Ron, doing everything with him and third-wheel Harry, that I had found the idea of having other friends almost revolting and, however important Harry was in his own story, he was of little consequence in mine. He was unlike Harry in every way, except for looks, and was mean on top of it. So I had to let go of that story and try to find my own.

After that, friend-finding became difficult. No one held up to my fantasy standards. No one tried so hard to make me smile as My Ron once had or succeeded so easily. My Ron became my idolized relationship as the trio was before him. I don’t think I ever truly let go of that.

I switched schools and I learned that I wasn’t completely crazy. I still held impossible ideals, but I knew that my dislike of people had stemmed from the environment I had been trapped in: a weirdo friendly, predominantly white and preppy charter school. Public school was a better fit for me. I met people who disliked the same people (the real root of friendship ;-)) They were kinder, more accepting of me and my eccentricities, and didn’t bring up race into every conversation. I loved that school and I made many acquaintances, but very few really decent friends.

I’ve always had this list. A subconscious list. Of everything I would finally be able to do with my “best friend”; the one person I would hold in the highest regard. Who didn’t just tolerate me, but loved me like I did them. It’s a rather silly list filled up with tiny, menial things and actions like “making waffles”, “talking on my bed and having light-meaningless conversation”, “secret handshakes”, “sleepovers”, and “serious talk”. Most of them just involve me finally being comfortable with a person without being judged at the same time. Being loved, but not pitied. Being understood. Sometimes it seems like a lot to ask for, as if I’m still holding those same impossible ideals, but I don’t think that’s true. It’s a modest request. Something everyone should probably have, even if my views of it have been crafted solely by television shows.

I’ve tried many times to sculpt people into what I needed from them in an attempt to create a “best friend” from scratch. I push my list on them, trying to get through it without that feeling of discomfort I get when I know people are judging me, which is why we never get to “serious talk”. The discomfort never goes away. Apparently “best” friendships have to just happen. Accidentally. With no coercion from me and this is the first time that it has ever happened like that.

The friend that I have now is not my “best” friend. The word is jinxed. But she is my better one. We have an unforced friendship built upon a dislike of each other that magically transformed. We flew through my list with ease, accidentally. Not because I asked, but because it happened. But most importantly, I can talk about my life without wounding her. Making her pity me and seeing it in her eyes. That’s usually the deal breaker. Why I recycle so many friends. Why I’m writing this in the first place. I refuse to be pitied and I’m afraid it won’t last. It would be great if it did. If I could finally have someone that I could tell anything to. Share secrets. Share burden. Apart from a family who can’t possibly understand. It would be nice.

I like the idea…


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