Don't Have Friends. Period.

Yeah, so I saw the therapist the other day and I bring up the fact that I don't have any friends, in fact I even called myself a 'social recluse.' This caused her to not only smirk widely, which I truely did not know how to read, but I think she wanted to write that phrase down. She was very interested to know why I refered to myself that way.

I wanted to know why she was smirking!

It's because she thought it so interesting, but I am thinking it's because it just might make her day when she gets a patient smart enough to refer to themself in a way that she's read about in a textbook, or whatever version of the DSM we're on. Regardless though, I got some comfort out of her as she said,

"Well, you don't seem to be too unhappy about it."

Which is pretty true. Just like so many things, I wonder how 'normal' I am. She agreed with Husband that I have been hurt, and very sorely, by 'friends.' So are we all just going to give me that, as usual, my fortitude is an acceptable reason to not only continue living and my occasional consideration of even flourishing despite the fact that I sometimes think I should be 'doing' something to cultivate a friend?

I'm really not into that because when all my face friends have been the ones to be 'too sick for a dinner together,' and that was a year or so ago; or the typical 'I work and have two daughters' - well I don't touch that one with a ten foot pole; one who knew me 15+ years, was in my wedding, got a boyfriend, and then dropped me without so much as a single chicken-shit reason; or the one I knew for 12 years that just took to telling everything I said to him to 6 other people I didn't know, like I was a form of entertainment; to the recent 'mental mama' I met in the hidey-hole who, amongst other things, just plain didn't call, even though she swore she was gonna? I'm still not over how rude that is (and no Raine, if she forgot the first or second night, what is the deal a month and a half later?).

One thing significant: these were all things done to me. I don't think I could live with myself if I actually did any one of these things to somebody else. Strangely, I find myself the recipient of these single, aggregious acts, having to deal with them individually, as a shocking pile-up. I am starting to wonder if there's a big neon sign pointing down at me, "Please shit here."

The natural thing is to say no more, as if daily chances for close friendship come at all anyway. And there just may be reason for that. I don't know where these wretched masses come from, or what stone they think they are hiding under, but I know, deep inside, that I am better off without them. I won't say I'm not HURT, because I am. In some cases, nearly irreparably so, but here I am, still alive and typing.

I can only think the best revenge is living well, so sometimes I wake up before noon and think about where my 'living well' cloak went to. I really am dumb about these things, but I'm thinking that consistently sleeping too much is a form of depression. Newsflash: I am getting along fine, with my 'little' illness that wants to kill me, without being able to call Dad or anybody living that used to pretend to care. God, I am the shit. I'm glad I take my pills every day so that I can do battle. It's nice, every once in a while, to let myself feel good for being better than everyone else. And if you don't agree, I really don't give a shit.:) Because I'm not going to let you in. Frankly, it's my right.

Just like my Dad did, I like my alone time. If I want 'outside' time, I drive somewhere. This reminds me how great alone/home time is, with my fabu animals and in fact, plenty of hobbies, and my good ol' computer with cable connection.

Both therapist and I admitted I liked my 'anonymous' interaction on the web and my occasional telephone conversation with mysti :) I'm not going to the local 'day program for the mentally ill' just to have a friend. I don't think that would work out really, because every time I go over there, they freak me out by treating me like a rock star. There's no place for a mentally ill person with a B.A. degree and who's worked real jobs until she said the hell with it. So, I'll just stay at home until I get the book done, and then Oprah can do her yearly series on bipolar (as it seems she requires herself to, as she did let that vile Tom Cruise pound her couch) and promote my home-grown wit. See ya'll then.