I Choose Real Enemies Over Fake Friends

I have never been good at making friends. No, untrue. I have never been good at keeping friends. People like me and I like them, at first. But then, it has always been my perception that they wrong me and I find it necessary to retaliate to show them that God might not have my back but I have my own back. Hurt me, and I raise the stakes, was my motto. Wouldn’t you know it, but after I got mad and acted in a way that seemed like the only reasonable path to travel, I’d wind up alone. It took years to see the pattern and relate my lonliness to my anger. But I never trusted the world enough to let go of the ability and desire to cause people think twice about hurting me. What gave people second thoughts was associating with me, an unintended consequences of what I called my coping mechanism.

Another factor in my isolation is that I have mood swings so extreme it’s like I am different people. Or so I have been told. Personally I don’t see it, but 208 people can’t be wrong. “Everyone I talk to about you says they don’t know who you’re going to be each time they see you, ” said a long time associate just this weekend. Really? Another person who has known me over a long time once said, “Moody? Not you. You’re straight Sybil.” He likened me to the woman whose psych history was presented to the public and put “multiple personalities” into the average person’s lexicon, I think in the 1970’s.

All in all, through what I did or failed to do, whether I was aware if it is not, I never knew how to keep friends. I was called loser in 7th grade by the other kids. To this day people make fun of my unpopularity. But the dope world is safe from that form of shame. You’re not expected to have friends, only associates. People would think me a fool if I believed friendship was possible. What was once called isolation is regarded as intelligent independence. Like how rich single people are called recluses but poor single people, rejects. In the dope world, I am not embarrassed to always be seen alone. I actually choose people who I know dislike me so that when they walk away I am not devestated by shock, but I admit it still hurts. How hard would it be to return to a world of non drug users that expects me to have a support network or go out with friends or travel with companions? How do I answer the inevitable Monday morning questions about my weekend without revealing I shared it with only a cat? Journal entry, 2008