Anxiously Friendless in Portland

Those of you who don’t suffer from any kind of anxiety might not understand, but for me I live in a constant state of feeling like something dreadful is about to happen. Even though I have never ever been evicted from anywhere, just seeing a flyer stuck in my door is enough to trigger a mild panic attack as I approach from the parking lot, the flashing light on my answering machine is a harbringer of some horrible message of doom, and if it’s not shaped like a card from the Hallmark store, any envelop with my parents’ handwriting means I am in trouble, despite the fact that I am now thirty-five years old and have lived on my own since 1993.

And, no, the fact that I can see the humor in my own pain does not make it any easier. It just means that I should reconsider my left-behind career in stand-up comedy.

So, anyway, yesterday afternoon, a letter from my mother was awaiting me in my mail box and immediately when I saw it, my heart dropped to my stomach. God, what had I done now?

What possible news clippings could be tucked inside? I knew there were clippings. There are always clippings from articles she sees that she cuts out and forwards because she thinks they’ll enlighten me in some way. Some have to do with protecting my identity on the web — this from a woman who’s password is the name of a dog we had when I was little and who didn’t update her virus protection for a year because she only reads email from her friends. Some have to do with losing weight. Some have to do with meeting people, mostly about meeting men. Some have to do with how dangerous it is to meet people these days, especially on the web. Some have to do with how dangerous the Internet is these days. Some have to do with how to make money mystery shopping or doing hobbies or other random stuff. Many of them conflict each other which pretty much fits everything about my childhood.

I haven’t actually looked at the clippings yet. I haven’t worked up the courage.

However, I did read the letter, which I almost didn’t. I don’t know why. Usually I do read the letter right away, but something told me that I didn’t want to read this one…and my internal instinct was right. It was so sad.

She was sad that I had not celebrated my birthday with anyone this year and that I don’t have anyone close to do anything with or share things with. She even went so far as to concede that “someone” does not necessarily mean “male”, which makes me laugh because in the past that’s always what it’s been code for. For good measure, she added that she’s sure that even my therapist would agree with her that I need to work on developing some relationships here.

She’s right. I can’t argue with her. I don’t have anyone close any more. My old friends have moved on. Not a single one wished me a “happy birthday” this year — not a call, not an email, not a card — and three of them I talked to within the week of my birthday and not a peep. And I didn’t really make a big deal of it up here. I mean, I’m 35 years old and I don’t have a any real friends anymore, what was I going to do, wander around with a big sign and a hat? Especially when I like to be kind of low-key anyway?

But not hearing from the old friends did kind of hurt. I mean, after all the parties I’d planned all those years…I wonder if this is how Julie on the Love Boat felt after she left for another job…

So, anyway, my mother went on to say that when she and her friends get together and talk about their kids, she’s always so proud of me because I’m so independent, have a career, can do things on my own, and have such creative hobbies…but…

There’s always a but, you know.

But she really wants me to work on this friendship thing.

When I was a kid, things just seemed easier. I’d talk to anyone and everyone and I seem to recall having lots of friends when we lived in Florida. We moved to New Orleans when I was six or seven and I guess that when the trouble began. Anyway, it’s the first time I can recall kids grouping themselves off into cliques or whatever you want to call it; it’s the first time I recall that some kids thought they were better than others and I guess it’s the first time that I recall not feeling pretty enogh or skinny enough or smart enough or good enough to be friends with some kids.

My parents both were beautiful and popular when they were in school and I don’t think they ever quite understood the ugly duckling syndrome I went through. I really was Josie from Never Been Kissed to the point that my stomach ached when I wateched that movie and I thought I might pass out from reliving the agony of the flashback scenes. High school was pretty much a series of agonizing moments for me with just a few shining moments thrown in to make it barely tolerable but not worth really looking back on. Certainly it didn’t help that I went to an expensive private school with rich kids and my parents sent me dressed in hand-me-down fashions from the 70’s or that my mother insisted that I get my hair permed by a woman who only did gramma-perms.

It also didn’t help that I was smart in glasses, that I was a plump girl, that I liked science and math or that I liked to read science fiction. It didn’t help that I could program in BASIC and had a computer and in Junior High helped the computer science teacher with the seniors. It didn’t help that I liked to write and that I got along better with people older than me than kids my own age. It didn’t help that I didn’t understand sports and couldn’t throw a ball let alone catch one. I didn’t help that I never knew what to say and always loved the boy I couldn’t have. My mother restricted the number of people I could invite to birthday parties, not that many people would come anyway.

Even now at 35, I find I have similar issues fitting in. The truth is that I kind of walk to the beat of my own drummer. I kind of decide on my own style of fashion. I’m a programmer, but I don’t like to talk computers when I’m not at work. I don’t like hanging out in bars. I still don’t get sports, but I do enjoy a live game every now and then — especially baseball and hockey. I still can’t throw or catch. Obviously I don’t have birthday parties now. I like to think that I’m still smart. I’m not so much on the reading science fiction anymore, but I enjoy a good sci-fi movie. I’m kind of a liberal with conservative tendencies. I believe in God but I have problems with the Christian Church. I still secretly like those Strawberry Shortcake socks that I got teased for wearing in sixth grade and wish I had them now.

The fact is that in person, I just never quite fit in. I never quite know what is the right thing to say is and it seems like no matter what I say is the wrong thing. Even with my parents. I can’t even pick the right fast food establishment when they ask — “Where would you like to go for lunch, N?” “McDonalds?” “No, You don’t want to go there!” — Actual conversation on multiple occassions. How can I be expected to figure out what the right thing to say to strangers is when I can’t figure out what the right answer is to where I want to go to lunch is when my own mother asks?

And now we get back to the anxiety that I live with because, see, it’s there, bubbling beneath the surface. If I were faced with a stranger to meet, a potential friend, for example. What do you think would that do to my anxiety? My experience tells me that no matter what I say, this potential friend will end up looking at me like an utter freak at some point once I open my mouth. Oh. My. God. McDonalds! Wrong Answer!!!!!!!!!!
So is it any wonder that I can’t quite figure out how to make friends at thirty-five? Why can’t it be as easy as it was when I was two or three when the only important thing was that we lived next door and shared an interest in swing sets and tricycles? I mean, at two or three, everyone loves McDonalds with their Happy Meals and their animal crackers and their clown.

(Please note: We no longer have the above conversation as I no longer eat at McDonalds. Now it’s about Wendy’s. They however still insist on eating at Burger King.)

tags: anxiety, dysfunctional family

3 comments

1. on March 29, 2006 at 1:22 pm

   Tamara said:

   Jeez, why do they even ask where you want to eat if they are going to do what they want anyway?

   I am so sorry that you’re going through this. I don’t have any answers, I’m afraid, but I hope you can find some avenues to meeting people. What about your crafts class? What about going back to WW meetings?

   I know, I’m sure you’ve thought of all those things and more. I tend to be a person who wants to offer practical solutions (so the opposite stereotype in my house, whenever the hub is feeling down, I try to “fix” it).

   Anyway, feel free to e-mail me whenever you like. I wish I could do more.

2. on April 3, 2006 at 10:08 am

   Christine said:

   Girl, you sound so much like me. I’ve been skimming the surface of your blog, so I’m not sure if you take medication for your anxiety. I know that Zoloft has made a huge difference in my life — after years of fighting the fact that yes, I do need to take something. Physical activity helps. Writing helps. Being around people helps. Hell, blogging helps.

   Keep writing honestly and from the heart, and email me anytime. I’ll keep checking in on ya.

3. on April 3, 2006 at 1:41 pm

   n. mallory said:

   Christine — Thanks for stopping by. As you know, I’ve been tripping by your site the last few days too. I’ve been taking Effexor, which is more for my depression. Currently, I’m in a cognitive therapy group/class though the first two weeks were o.k. but I’m struggling with their 3rd week’s material.

   You and Tamara both have good advice. I know, I know. I really need to go back to my stained glass class (though now I wish they’d let puppies in there. ) Must find more to do out of the house. Once Pugly arrives I’ll be looking for a puppy playgroup and puppy training classes. I wonder if I can get a doctor to write me a note saying he’s has to come with me for health reasons so he can come everywhere like seeing eye dogs.

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