There Is No More Room In Here

There was never going to be enough room for me, and that’s okay, I see that now.

It was the guilt that was all-consuming.

I felt guilty for ever gossiping, for ever letting myself fall into the “Hole of Stereotypical Catty Women”.

I was so happy to have a friend, a female one at that. I abandoned the good things that make me me, that make me unique and interesting and real.

I was never good with friendships.

If it was a male friend we’d wind up entangled in the “benefits of friendship sex”, extricating the “friendship” part soon after. And female friends always ended with claws out and total destruction of emotional integrity.

I remember someone saying once:

That’s just how women are. Men work through anger with physical confrontation. Women destroy each other from the inside-out.

They’ll take out all your other friends, your connections — whatever’s important to you, consider it decimated.

I won’t say that’s incorrect, but I surely hope it’s not one-hundred percent accurate.

Is it?

I was emotional — I always am nowadays.

I still don’t understand what happened, but I don’t care enough to try to find out or resolve or even talk to her about it. I’ve listened to her talk about this much younger guy she’s in love with, a guy I only saw common ground over the fact that she wanted out and they liked to drink together.

But I listened, always, the best I could. No matter how much I tried to balance the scales by injecting snippets about me, it still didn’t matter. It always came back around to she and him.

She and him.

I texted her back, even when I didn’t feel like it. I kept my phone on, always, because if I didn’t respond in what she deemed a reasonable amount of time, she’d text-bomb me, curious of what’s more important than her.

I tried…

Sure, I’m not perfect. I don’t have friends for a reason. But I thought she’d be different. I thought it was different.

But it wasn’t.

Word to the wise: Don’t befriend people in the service industry of places you frequent. You’ll have to find a new spot.

I don’t want to look at her.

I feel like all the people we talked about, her co-workers, I feel like they know.

I feel like the instant she decided she was going to bail on me, she returned to work, to the place I go to everyday for coffee, and told everyone my words, told everyone her words came from my mouth.

Maybe I’m just feeling guilty.

I hate gossip, I can’t stand people who only feel complete when they’re bringing other people down, and I fed into it. I let myself get sucked in like it was some normal, everyday thing because I wanted a friend.

Who am I?

I knew she was done when I didn’t hear from her for three-straight days. She lives on her phone, her whole life is on that thing — in her text messages and on social media. I hated that, but I dealt because I was content to have a friend who I thought understood me.

I dealt with the texting or being on her phone in my presence.

I dealt with the bullshit drama between she and the much younger man who I still don’t understand how there’s a “thing” between them.

She’s married and masks her deeply emotional core with an outwardly impenetrable casing of callous withdrawal.

I dealt because I was hoping we could be friends, hoping we’d grow and change together.

You know, the makings of anything successful—loving people where they’re at, but hoping they’ll change or maybe, you can help change them. Because that always works, right?

Then, out of the blue, it was over.

I needed her, I needed a friend and she bailed. So, I lie in my pool of emotional bewilderment and think and feel and review everything I said and did and now, I write.

It was fifty-fifty, a match made in Hell, really.

She hates the world and I was just trying to like it again. A connection built on hatred and anger never lasts.

But maybe she saw something else.

Maybe she remembered the time I bailed on a conversation with her because someone I wanted to rid myself of impeded while she was temporarily away.

Maybe she saw through my façade, the one which reveals that I’m someone who has to force herself to have deep, personal connections with people. That no matter how much either of us put into it, I don’t have enough energy to sustain more than what I’ve got.

Maybe I deserve to be cast out, like always — the woman who has no problem attracting people, yet leaves everyone running, broken, or overflowing with anger soon after.

Maybe I should just accept that I’m not a friend to anyone, and stop trying to have friends outside of casual acquaintances—which is more than enough for me.

Maybe I should stop trying to see people for the good in them, stop trying to be agreeable.

Because, really, does it matter?

I’m a loner. I used to think that was an excuse, and there’s got to be something wrong with me.

What kind of good human being functions better on her own or with just her family?

Well, I do. And it’s not an excuse.

It’s my truth.

I’ve got only so many spaces to fill with people to love, to care for, and they’re all used up.

There’s no more room in here.

Consider yourself lucky.

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