Unrealistic Expectations

I am slowly but surely beginning to realize that, at times, I have rather unrealistic expectations for the people I call my friends.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I have been well known to drop everything for a friend in need.  I make personal sacrifices and I bend over backwards.

But because that’s something I’m willing to do doesn’t mean that I have a right to expect the same degree from other people in my life.  Not that I expect people to bend over backwards for me, just that sometimes I find myself feeling let down by people, when I’d really set the bar quite high to begin with.

“You want the Jesus of all friends, Felicia,” Willie once told me.  And sometimes I do.  There’s nothing wrong with wanting that sort of a friend, I think.  But expecting friends to rise to that level is unrealistic and unfair.

I often talk myself out of friends.  I tell myself that they wouldn’t do what I’d do for them, so why bother?  Why work for a friendship that will inevitably let me down?  I’m working on this.  Most days.  I think it all stems from my general insecurities and a string of events that occurred in high school where my personal and emotional health was put at risk because of a “friend” I was trying to help.

Friendships, like relationships, have a sort of cycle or timeline to them.  At first, the friendship is shiny and new, and you’re excited to have a new person in your life.  You delight in learning new things, and retelling stories that all your other friends think have gotten old.  You begin spending more time with this person than your other friends, because they’re new and wonderful, and you adore them.  

But then, slowly, the cracks begin to show.  They’re a flake, or a pathological liar, or a gossip, or they chew with their mouth open.  You begin to regret the personal things you may have trusted them with.  Irritation begins flitting in and out of your time spent with them as pet peeves are violated and their flaws start to get to you. 

Here’s where I begin to pull away, every time (Honestly, this is true of relationships and friendships as well).  At this point, I begin delaying text returns, dodging calls, making excuses to avoid hanging out.  I start to mourn the friendship lost, while simultaneously telling myself they weren’t a good enough friend anyway.  I mean, look at what I did for them that they never repaid me for or even said thank you about!  Look!  See, this is justifiable!

But, mostly, I just need to realize that everyone has flaws.  Not every friend I acquire will be a best friend.  Not every friend will have flaws I can overlook all the time and love them for regardless.  Those friends are rare, and I need to appreciate that a bit more.  Instead of walking away from the cracks as they form, I need to simply skip over them and continue on.

Here’s to friendship, ladies and gents.

I’m an idiot today.

I just thought to myself, ‘Wow, it’s cold in here.  What’s up with that?’

Then it hit me.

I turned the heat off hours ago when I opened the windows.

Because it was 65 degrees today, February 1st.  IN OHIO.

The fight goes on.

twloha:

In a world where many people wear masks as a way to feel safe, honesty is sometimes hard to find, especially in the world of social media where we can paint our masks carefully. We allow people to see only what we want them to see, except when we have the courage to be vulnerable. Jenny Lawson (aka The Bloggess) writes with such boldness, telling a part of her story with honesty because she believes it’s a part of healing. We hope the words below give an invitation for you to do the same.

——

If you follow me on twitter you already know that I’ve been battling off one of the most severe bouts of depression I’ve ever had. Yesterday it started to pass, and for the first time in weeks I cried with relief instead of with hopelessness. Depression can be crippling, and deadly. I’m lucky that it’s a rare thing for me, and that I have a support system to lean on. I’m lucky that I’ve learned that depression lies to you, and that you should never listen to it, in spite of how persuasive it is at the time.

When cancer sufferers fight, recover, and go into remission we laud their bravery. We call them survivors. Because they are.

When depression sufferers fight, recover and go into remission we seldom even know, simply because so many suffer in the dark…ashamed to admit something they see as a personal weakness…afraid that people will worry, and more afraid that they won’t. We find ourselves unable to do anything but cling to the couch and force ourselves to breathe.

When you come out of the grips of a depression there is an incredible relief, but not one you feel allowed to celebrate. Instead, the feeling of victory is replaced with anxiety that it will happen again, and with shame and vulnerability when you see how your illness affected your family, your work, everything left untouched while you struggled to survive. We come back to life thinner, paler, weaker…but as survivors. Survivors who don’t get pats on the back from coworkers who congratulate them on making it. Survivors who wake to more work than before because their friends and family are exhausted from helping them fight a battle they may not even understand.

Regardless, today I feel proud.  I survived.  And I celebrate every one of you reading this. I celebrate the fact that you’ve fought your battle and continue to win. I celebrate the fact that you may not understand the battle, but you pick up the baton dropped by someone you love until they can carry it again. I celebrate the fact that each time we go through this, we get a little stronger. We learn new tricks on the battlefield. We learn them in terrible ways, but we use them. We don’t struggle in vain.

We win.

We are alive.

**********

I wrote this post a month ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to post it then. I was too weak from fighting to shout, and so instead I whispered this into the night and left it unpublished until I felt like I could speak to it with the battle-cry it deserves. Years ago, coming out about depression and anxiety disorder was something frightening, but now people are more honest and open and so much of the shame has dissipated. We may not have pink ribbons or telethons but we know that someone out there understands. That is, until we’re honest about how it affects us. I’ve never written about this because I can’t talk about it without it being a trigger but I think it’s important to be honest even when it’s scary. Especially when it’s scary.

I self-harm.  I don’t do it all the time and it’s not enough to put me into an institution or threaten my well-being, but it’s enough to make it frightening to live in my body sometimes.  I’m far from suicidal.  I do it to self-sooth, because the physical pain distracts me from the mental pain.  It’s one of those things that’s impossible to explain to people who don’t understand impulse control disorder.  Honestly, I find it hard to understand it to myself and I’m working my ass off to fix it now before my daughter is old enough to see the things I don’t want her to see.  It is one of the hardest things I have ever done.

I am safe.  My disorder is fairly mild and is becoming more controlled.  I’m in therapy and I’m not in danger.  I avoid triggers and I’ve found therapies and drugs that are helping.  I’m getting better.  But I sort of feel like I can’t completely heal from this without being honest about it.  So here it is.  Judge me or not, I am the same person I was before.  And so are you.  And chances are that many of your friends, family and coworkers are dealing with things like this.  Things that are killing them a little inside.  Things that kill people who don’t get help.  Silent, bloody battles that end with secret victors who can’t celebrate without shame.  I hope that this post changes this somehow.  I hope that you feel safe enough to be honest about the things you are the most ashamed of.  I hope you have someone there telling you “It’s okay.  You’re still the same person to me.”

I hope to one day I see a sea of people all wearing silver ribbons as a sign that they understand the secret battle and that they  celebrate the victories made each day as we individually pull ourselves up out of our foxholes to see our scars heal, and to remember what the sun looks like.

I hope one day to be better and I’m pretty sure I will be.  I hope one day I live in a world where the personal fight for mental stability is viewed with pride and public cheers instead of shame.  I hope it for you too.

But until then, it starts slowly.

I haven’t hurt myself in 3 days.  I sing strange battle-songs to myself in the darkness to scare away the demons.  I am a fighter when I need to be. 

And for that I am proud.

But on another note.

It is around 60 degrees down here in lovely Oxford, and I am wearing summer clothes and rocking to Taking Back Sunday like it’s high school. 

And it well may be high school again, what with all the ex boyfriends suddenly assaulting my facebook with “how are you these days”s and “hey text me sometime xxx-xxx-xxxx”s. 

No.  Just, I don’t even, no.  Sure, I’ll facebook chat with you if you insist.  But I draw the line at you saying you’d like to come visit me sometime, giving me your number, and your awkward winky face emoticons.  It’s not even a questionable line either, in case you were wondering.  It is a line that is exactly 183 miles (according to Google Maps) thick, and you, sir, are not crossing it.  It is bad enough that someday I will be in Mansfield again, that we still talk to some of the same people, that it’s not inconceivable that I could run into you there.

Dear god, what is my life these days?  

Well that is not how I would handle things.

I am preventative and preemptive.  I am not used to being simply reactive.  I am a runner, a dodger,  a nip it in the bud kind of kid.  This has the potential to be rather challenging.

It’s so therapeutic to make mix cds for other people.

A friend of mine was dumped recently, so I’m making 2 mix cds for her.  One for cheering up, with empowering, hopeful, fuck men/the world kinds of music.  And one for when she needs a good cry and wants to hear some sad stuff.  But I have a feeling I’m also making these mixes for myself.  I feel like I need to make these mixes just as much for her as for myself.

Stop it.

Just.  Just stop it.