When I have time to myself, I sometimes – more than I’d like to – ruminate on my part in the world. While it’s refreshing to take apart the reasons why I act the way I do, most of the time it takes a darker turn where I find that I do not measure up. In this particular instance to wit, I thought about my definition of friendships, and how it lies on the other end of the rope from people who seem to be able to casually call strangers friends.
Perhaps I over-complicate the situation, but ‘acquaintance with whom I enjoy a mutual understanding over food or witty banter’ is not the same as ‘friend of a friend who has an enjoyable personality on the occasional interaction’ is not the same as ‘person I enjoy the company of but am too afraid of getting closer because it may sour things so this status quo is okay’ is not the same as ‘friend’, even the latter being of a fluid status because my brain has an obsessive need to analyse and re-categorise my relationships because obviously I don’t already have a lot of other things to worry about. However, I sometimes simplify my complicated relationships into that one word, because nobody wants to know about how I view people and anyway it’s totally irrelevant to whatever anecdote I want to relay. It makes me cringe inwardly at having lied, and then again for being a terrible person for creating all of these unnecessary walls.
It’s also a weird little thing to note that I have a blog in which I put my body and sometimes even sieved thoughts like this out in the open, have no qualms talking about stereotypically intimate subjects like sex (although I’m infinitely more interested in the topic of poop, and anyone comfortable talking about it gets mentally noted in my little brain book of ‘people I want to hang out with more often’), but am still in some part censored to even those whom I count as friends, let alone those outside it. It’s been something that I’ve tried working myself out of, but then again, I also have this debilitating need to not. Growing up, I envied my younger brother’s innate talent for striking up wholesome friendships just like my mum, whereas I somehow inherited my dad’s reclusive inclination – not that we shy away from socialising, but that we are completely comfortable with these surface interactions as just that – on the surface.
And then I thought to myself, wow, that’s incredibly lonely.
I confessed these thoughts to Ottie when he came home from work that day, and he commented that not even my family knows me – I’m that closed off. In fact, we both agreed that it was the combination of my choosing that special someone to open up to, and him being the inquisitive bastard who could see through all my bullshit, that wound up being Ottie the only one who knows everything that I am.
Needless to say, Ottie’s the type of person who is automatically friends with anyone until a reason for it not to be surfaces. I loath the fact that this sometimes throws a wrench into my need to compartmentalise and I’m forced by proxy to interact with someone I am not ready to take the relationship further with. He doesn’t know how incestuous that feels, and I envy him that. And yet sometimes, I manage to get out of my snit and grasp the opportunity to be less of an asshole.
I guess what I’ve come here to say is that he’s a brighter person than I am and I’m lucky to share in a part of that light. I also suppose that this is an ongoing (two steps forward one step back) attempt to open up a little more so that I don’t walk the road that leads to a tortured existence.
Here’s an unrelated outfit:
Outfit photos assisted by Mum, whom I’ve gradually liked the taste of considering her a friend and roommate in recent years.