Growing up, I always imagined having photos of my friends and me hanging on my wall or framed on my dresser. Our smiles would be so wide that our eyes have squeezed shut, our arms entangled with one another in warm embraces. I always dreamed of having the picturesque relationships depicted in movies, television shows and social media. I wanted, more than anything, to have a true best friend that I could even consider my second sister.
When I was in kindergarten, my mom began to notice that I stood out from the other children my age. I was shy, which seemed normal for smaller kids, but my peers and I did not appear to understand each other; I couldn’t quite connect with them. She signed me up for every possible activity she could, from ballet to soccer to Girl Scouts, praying that something would resonate with me and I would find my place. I remember myself crying at cheerleading practice as a first-grader, agonizing over every second of the hour-and-a-half-long gatherings, and pleading to my mom to let me quit. She later told me what stood out when she looked at her eldest daughter: this little person she loved with every fiber of her being struggling to feel comfortable in her own skin. She said she would drop me off at cheer and drive home with tears streaming down her face, aching for her child that did not know how to connect with other kids her age.
My parents raised my sister and me in a newly constructed neighborhood filled with young couples and young families. There were plenty of girls and boys around my age on our little block tucked away from the main roads, allowing my younger sister and me to spend every waking moment outside with our neighbors. Most of the other kids were my sister’s age or younger, and she claimed them as her own, refusing to share her wealth. I began to bond with three girls around my age, and I thought that they would be the missing pieces that took years to find. I was always with one of the three, and I was finally the happy kid my mother had prayed for every day.
After a while, I drifted from one of the girls as she opted for other friends closer to her age. She was only one year older than me. My heart ached for the loss of my first best friend. I didn’t think it could get any worse, or even consider the possibility of losing anymore friends. I still had my other friends, though, right? There wasn’t anything wrong with me, right?
I ended up sticking with cheerleading. My friends and I were on the same team, so all three of us got to spend time together a few times a week without needing to plan. I felt comfortable for the first time. I did not feel this overwhelming sense of urgency or an intense beating in my heart when I would talk to them, and it felt so good. I was finally at home. I had my place.
But good things never last forever, as I have come to learn. As time went on, I began to notice that my friends were spending less time with me. They would sit and talk with each other eagerly, and I would sit beside them, listening intently. They carried on conversations by themselves, talking about television shows or new technology, and I was merely an observer to them, just a witness to how close they were becoming as I once again began to drift from relevance. One night, I was sitting in my room reading a book. I was immersed in my reading, allowing the words to transport me to a world free from the stress of a child’s social life, but noises began to break through my concentration. I could hear kids in the park across from my house.
“One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, rock…”
The muted shouts of pre-teens filled my bedroom. They filled my mind, my heart and my tear ducts as well. They continued to shout their game, filling the night air with the reality of a fulfilled childhood. There was no mistaking it. The girl I had been considering my best friend was throwing her birthday party that night, across the street from my house, and I didn’t receive an invite.
Things between us steadily got worse. My life became a montage of me sitting alone on weekends while my so-called best friends were having sleepovers and going out together. I could hear their hysterical laughter in my head as I would see posts of them sharing food and inside jokes. I was constantly agonizing over the possibility that I was what was wrong, that I was too weird. I don’t exactly remember when, but I eventually decided that they were not worth the pain they were inflicting on me.
Realizing that the company I kept was not a healthy or enjoyable form of friendship opened my eyes. I was under the impression that the people I was close to as a child would stand by me as we trekked through our lives and education, never considering the possibility of them drifting away. I knew I deserved better.
I floated between friends and groups of people throughout the rest of middle school, still yearning to find my place. I witnessed acquaintances blossom into friendships before my eyes, still feeling like a background character in my own life. I just never connected with anyone that made me feel like I was where I belonged. I had friends, sure, but I almost always felt a tenseness in my shoulders and hands when I was around them. I was perpetually nervous about people getting the impression I was one of those weird girls. I let those nerves get the best of me, often making situations uncomfortable when they didn’t need to be. I never meant to do it. I just never felt comfortable with anyone.
High school was no different. I still feel out of place. I have closer friends than I’ve had in a long time, but things still don’t feel right sometimes. For my entire life, I have just wanted to have people I can be myself around. But people have always seemed to find someone they like more, relate to more and feel more comfortable alongside. The idea that I am the problem constantly lingers in the back of my mind. My mom would tell me when I was younger that I would find my people.
Charlotte, she’d say, everything will work out. You’ll find your place, even if it takes you until high school or college. Those people will make everything worth it.
I keep her words with me. As I look at my dresser or my walls, I do not worry about having photos of my closest confidants like I used to. I know that nothing lasts forever and that life doesn’t end at the town lines of Antioch. I will fall into place. I know I will. I just need to find the puzzle I will fit in.
