I Love You, Man

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I Love You, Man

I’m starting to really hate my phone. Well, not my phone. Timehop. That poxy app. It’s almost my birthday so you can imagine the kind of shit it’s showing me right now. Parties, and lots of them – my 18th, 19th, 25th, joint birthday and coming home from the other side of the world parties … So many parties. So many people. I had so many friends. I had quite the active social life. I remember having lots of fun. And right now I’m sat in my bedroom, crying.

Funny how life changes, eh?

The girl who had so many friends she couldn’t even remember all of their names now has barely any friends at all. I’m trying to work out if I’m just a bitch who pushes everyone away, or if I’ve just been really unlucky and keep choosing to have people in my life who aren’t worth the time of day.

I do know this much, if I were to get married tomorrow (which I’m not), it would be like that movie where Paul Rudd has no friends and needs to find a best man for this wedding. I can never remember the name. Let me just Google it …

I Love You, Man! That’s it!

That’s me. I wouldn’t even have enough friends to fill a table at a wedding. I’m like the girl who has no friends. When did that happen? I feel so unlikeable right now.

Anxiety has crippled most of my friendship circles. Too many of my male friends tried to fuck me after I lost five stone and now I don’t trust any of them. My female friends think I’m a bitch who’s trying to fuck their husbands / boyfriends, and also hate my honesty. I don’t know that, of course, but I do know that very few of them make any time for me these days. And what makes it worse is that I’ve moved around so often, most of my friends are in weird and wonderful places around the world. Not that I had many friends left after my stints in those places I lived. Deutschland, for example, left me with relatively ZERO friends because not only did I not fit in, my husband beat and abused me until I isolated myself. It’s real difficult to have friends when you’ve always got a bruise you need to cover up. And when you’re calling in sick at work, or have been signed off because of another black eye, it’s kinda hard to get the girls together for a good time, you know?

And then we had Canada. Well, all of those friends live a minimum 24 hours worth of travel away, and they’ve all had babies and stuff too. I have nothing in common with them. I had mini rant on Twitter the other day about the girl – my ‘best friend on the other side of the world’ who stole my dreams of being a writer and actually achieved them (or seemed to) better than I ever could. After she had kids, of course. She didn’t even need to work because her husband earned enough money to keep their TWO houses going.

Some chicks have all the luck. Lemme tell you something – I am NOT one of them.

I work my ass off. I really do too. 12 – 18 hours a day most days, just spent in front of my laptop, working on this website or that website, or writing tens of thousands of words for another client who is probably paying well under the odds for my work. I WANT to be a writer. Seeing as I don’t have kids yet, it seems a shame to not go and grab my career with both hands while I can. That’s what I did when I quit my day job and became a full time freelance … me? What am I? I can’t say I’m a writer because I do so many things, ‘writer’ doesn’t quite cover it. And I don’t do too badly out of it all, but in order to not do too badly out of it, I need to work all the goddamn hours under the sun. How am I meant to fit in a social life around that?

And then there’s the fact that I no longer drink. I can’t stand pubs. They bring me out in anxiety so bad, I actually cry. Real tears. Proper panic. I hate pubs / bars / clubs. The coke-snortin’, MDMA-droppin’, Jaegermeister-guzzling party girl really did turn her life around. She’s now a successful (ish) stoner who doesn’t drink. And I am kinda successful when you think about it. I must be. I gave up my full time job in order to do something I love. Which brings me nicely to my next point – I actually like working. I love what I do. I don’t really moan about it because I don’t need to. When I have a ridiculous 10,000 word deadline I don’t feel anxious. It’s the only time I don’t feel anxious. I just knuckle down. I smoke a joint, I open my laptop, and I let my fingers do the talking. It works. I have been known to complete a 20,000 word project in one day and still get a 5/5 star rating at the end of it. Oh, and keep my spelling mistakes to below 2%. (It’s a shame I don’t put the same effort into my own personal stuff … LOL!)

It’s because I LOVE what I do. Wholeheartedly. And I get paid for it. I get paid to do the thing I love the most. That’s not a job. That’s a dream come true. It is for me anyway. But have I sacrificed my friends in the process? My social life? Relationships … ?

I remember my mama saying something to me a few years back, when I was contemplating moving to the other side of the world with a boyfriend I’d known for less than 6 months. She said this: “You’re such a likable girl, you can make friends anywhere. You always have done. Don’t be worried, go and have your adventures.”

She was right too. I could make friends anywhere. Little old ladies at bus stops talk to me. Girls my own age talk to me, usually complimenting me on hair / tattoos / piercings / shoes. Older men love me.

I *could*. I did it – I DID move to the other side of the world and I DID make new friends. So what’s happened?

Between the cervical shit, and then the bowel stuff, and the anxiety and depression, moving halfway around the world and back a few times, bad relationship after bad relationship, and generally feeling like I wasn’t good enough, I’ve pushed all my friends away. I told my work colleague her husband was an alcoholic and I didn’t want my boyfriend to be around her boyfriend while he was like that. I pushed her away. I don’t keep in touch with any of my Canadian friends half as much as I wanted to. Nowhere near as much, in fact. I never sent the care boxes I said I would. I never wrote those handwritten love letters we kept saying we’d write. That was me – I did that. I didn’t bother. I was too busy, or too sick, or too anxious / stressed / depressed to leave my house for weeks at a time. I don’t talk to any of my old work colleagues now – the job I had before I went self-employed. To be fair, I fucked the one guy I would have classed as my closest friend from that period.

I really do cause my own sodding problems.

And then there’s Bestie. I lost him because I didn’t fuck him. I didn’t just lose him, I lost people I cared a great deal for – the tiny social circle I had left. I didn’t even realise I gave a shit about most of them until after they’d gone. Funny how that works, eh? But I see those wedding photos, and then more wedding photos, and I’m sad that I wasn’t included. I know they’re going to start making babies soon and I won’t be around for any of that either. It’s quite sad really. I watched these people meet, fall in love, plan their engagements, weddings, everything … and now I’m nothing to them and they’re nothing to me. Well, nothing but mostly good memories.

I need to sort my life out. I’m really struggling. It’s 20-odd degrees outside, not a cloud in the sky, glorious blue skies and scorching summer rays. I’m locked in my bedroom with the curtains closed, puffy eyed and surrounded by snotty tissues. Feeling like an ungrateful cunt, I must add, because I have a wonderful job that I love, a beautiful boyfriend who treats me like a queen (most of the time), and a life that most people would kill for. I have so much to be thankful for … So why aren’t I? And where are those people who are meant to stick around and give me that sharp slap in the face at times like these?

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