Life would be so simple if it were structured like a sitcom. Besides the fact that money issues are never dire enough to threaten hunger or homelessness, there are always friends around, for whatever friend need you have at the time. Wanna go out drinking? Knock on Schmidt’s door. Want someone to put your life in hilarious perspective? Call Chandler. Having a bad hair day and want to feel sexy? Flirt with Joey. Need a quirky perspective? Spend quality time with Jess or Phoebe.(Yeah, so, I’m drawing from two popular shows, but you catch my drift.)
Reality isn’t so simple. Or maybe it’s way more simple. Need a friend? Call one. Then call the next one, because there was no answer. Then keep calling names in your phonebook until you’ve reached the voicemail of every one of your contacts. Then make a pity-party post on Facebook and wait for that ONE person with whom you almost never interact to say something trite and pointless that only serves to make you feel more alone and to prove that no one really gets what you’re going through. Then, if you’re still feeling needy, send out a few passive-aggressive text messages to your closest friends, putting unrealistic and unfair expectations on your friendship, therefore further alienating yourself from the people who already proved they were too busy to answer the phone. No Schmidt. No Chandler. No Tin Man. No Scarecrow.
Such is the wonderful life of a person afflicted with depression, compounded with intense loneliness. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just how things are. Some people are lucky enough to have their closest friends across the hall, always there to listen. Some people have somewhere to turn no matter where or when. I’ve always been the person people call, any time, day or night. But I’ve never had a person like that in my life. No matter where or when, I’m always going to get voicemail, unanswered texts and emails, an empty apartment.
And that’s okay. People have their lives. I get it. People have their priorities, and I can’t fault a single person in my life for not making me a priority. Because I’m always there, I’m always accessible, I’m taken for granted. I get it. I understand.
There have been a few times in my life when I thought I had a friend to count on. But the only person I could ever count on to always be there and listen was my dad. So for the past 8 years, there’s been no one there. Even when I was married, I never felt like I was a priority. I have always felt like an option to the people in my life. I’ve BEEN Chandler, Joey, Schmidt, Jess, Phoebe. But I’ve never had them.
If my life were a sitcom, there would be a 5 second theme song, with me, solo, dancing around a park, with my name as the only regular character. Sure, there are guest stars. Sometimes they recur, sometimes they have a 3-episode arc. But at the end of the season, it’s just me. In the story of my life, I’m the only character.
And that’s okay. After 35 years, I should be used to people entering my life, making a remarkable impact, then leaving. Maybe showing up for a holiday special every other season or so. I should be used to being a secondary character in my own life. But I’m not.
And that’s okay, too.
Kudos
The Flip Flop Ninja 