“Friends”

I don’t have a huge network of friends. And of those I do, I only count a handful as close, dependable, REAL friends. The people you can count on to be there in an emergency. The people who I trust. The people I am equally loyal to. I count loyalty as a prime virtue. I may have a slightly skewed sort of ethics, but I have strong morals and loyalty to your peeps is one of the top tenets. Perhaps I take it too seriously.

Do you really need the type of friendships who would keep your darkest secrets and perhaps help you bury a body? Probably not. But I just don’t have enough emotional capacity to give myself fully to someone only to find I was nothing to them. I like to think I’m a good friend. If I give you my loyalty and love, I like to think it’s worth something. I don’t half ass friendships. I’d rather have 3 good people than a hundred colleagues. Could also be because I generally really hate people.

Again, maybe I just take it too deep. But I keep my friends closer to my heart than family. Blood isn’t always thicker than water. I choose my family. So when I count someone as family and I lose them, it breaks my heart a little. To realize you mean so little to someone… It hurts.

C is one of those people. I realized this a few years ago. I’m only called upon when something is needed. When the sun is shining, I don’t exist to her. It was a hard bite to chew. But I was right. I was there for her, but she could never be there for me. I never even heard from her when my mother died. Though when her cat died, I researched the healing stones bullshit she’s into and sent her a cat carved from a stone meant to heal a broken heart. But when my heart was shattered, I didn’t even get a call.

We had her over on Wednesday. Haven’t seen her since last year. I had hoped maybe she’d notice my hair was thickening. She didn’t, but that doesn’t mean it’s not. I still hold hope. I cut it shorter in a if-you-cut-it, it-will-come kinda thing. I thought she’d comment on my new body after three plastic surgeries. She did not. My sweet husband even tried to steer the conversation that way by mentioning that I had waited to start my tattoo sleeve until my arms were done. Rather than a light bulb and her asking how it went or to look at them or see the scars or ANYTHING, it just led to a conversation about her tattoos. The whole visit was just a life dump from her. She didn’t care about what had been going on with me or Mr C. It was just two hours of her life.

I just can’t give my love to a freaking black hole. She only takes. C’est la vie.