You Don't Want To Have Friends, You Want To Have Friends In A Movie

I thought for a long time on this. 

I wanted to start this series with a bang, something that proves to myself that I can be brave when I write. 

And this is the most relevant thing going on in my current stage of life, so it seemed that I must start here. 

The problem came when I sat down to write and I couldn't figure out how to write on friendships without my words being full of things I didn't want. I started and stopped and started again writing this a number of times, but every time it wasn't what I wanted and wasn't without anger or bitterness. 

In frustration, I went to Pinterest in the hopes of calming down a little. I found myself going to one of my Boards called Clever Words. As I looked through all these words, I found so many that I had forgotten about and so many relevant to everything I am feeling these days because of friendships. So I present these words here. 

"Don't judge me because I sin differently than you."

I am different than you. And you are different than me. You might not understand my sins, and I might not understand yours. 

But heaven forbid we allow that to keep us from loving each other well. 

I want to be the kind of friend who will try to understand you, but even when I don't, still sit with you and hold your hand in your struggles. And I want you to be that kind of friend to me. 

We're all messed up, man. Can't we help each other, even when we don't understand each other? 

"Sometimes we expect more from others because we would be willing to do that much for them." 

I must confess something: I have often found myself letting friendships go or just backing away because I see that I am more invested or love the person better than I think they love me. 

I have this thing in me that makes me latch onto something and be crazy passionate about it to the extreme, or not care about something at all to the extreme. I don't deal very well in grays or middle ground; I am all or nothing. And so often I expect my friends to be like this as well. 

I don't do casual friendships very well. I want to be your best friend and I want you to call me all the time and ask me to hang out and I want you to be closer to me than any of your other friends. And when that doesn't happen, when I see that I consider you my best friend but you don't consider me yours, I don't know how to handle this. 

"Be willing to go alone sometimes. You don't need permission to grow. Not everyone who started with you will finish with you. And that's okay." 

I think when my dad retired from the military, I thought my friendships would be a lot different. I thought finally I would have friends and keep them for the rest of my life. I thought I would never have to say goodbye to another friend again. 

I am learning when it is okay to let a friend go and when it is okay to fight for a friendship and when it is okay to say I did everything I could and let them go because it's what they want. 

This is hard for me. And it means that sometimes I am lonely and grieving friendships. But this is a part of life sometimes, no matter how much it sucks. 

"Do no harm but take no shit." 

I want to tattoo this phrase to my hand so that I can remind myself of it every single day. 

I am a recovering pushover. 

Which means sometimes when I feel myself slipping back into the old patterns, when I start thinking things like, "Well, they're my friend, so I guess it's okay for them to treat me like this," or "Well, they're my friend so I guess it's okay to engage in this activity even though I know it's wrong for me," sometimes I lash out in anger as a self defense mechanism. 

I am still learning how to love people in such a way that when I say no, it is a loving sound and not an angry one. 

"I realize why you're not my cup of tea. I drink coffee." 

I am learning that it is okay to not like someone. It's okay to never get past casual acquaintance. Sometimes it's healthier and better that way. 

As long as I can do it in a way that is not hurtful. 

Because I have that addictive personality type, I tend to jump into friendships headfirst and go crazy about someone right away. And then sometimes I've learned shortly after that they're tea and not coffee, but I've already invested, so any breaking away is going to be hurtful. 

I am trying to learn to be patient with my friendships, to see if someone really should be in my inner circle. It's fine if they shouldn't be; it doesn't make them or me any less of a person. It just means we should smile at each other from a distance. 

"Forgive them even if they're not sorry." 

This is a big one for me right now. 

I am a talker. I get it from my mother. We don't do well with bottling up our emotions; we want to talk it out. 

I am learning that sometimes you don't get a reconciliation scene like in the movies. Sometimes you just have to go on with your life knowing you hurt someone or they hurt you and never talking to them again. 

I am currently in a scenario like this right now, and I would give anything to have an intervention of sorts and just talk things out with a few people, even if that involves yelling or crying. But I'm not going to get this, and that's hart for me to come to terms with. It leaves me with a lot of anger and bitterness inside that is hard to get rid of. 

Realizing that I'm not going to get this moment with this person and these people means that I will have to forgive them and move on on my own, I will have to forgive them without accepting an apology. 

God that is tough. 

But I know that it must be done in order for me to get through this anger and bitterness. 

"Not everyone has to like you. Not everyone has taste." 

This one cracked me up when I first read it. I thought about this phrase for a few days after I first read it. And I came to the conclusion that it is another one of those phrases I want to tattoo on my hand. 

Just because someone doesn't like me doesn't mean I'm not cool. 

Just because someone doesn't like me doesn't mean I'm not cool. 

Just because someone doesn't like doesn't mean I'm not cool. 

You know what, I am awesome. 

I have a stupid sense of humour and sometimes can say something that makes the entire room start laughing. 

I am generous with my love. 

I am beautiful. I may not look like a super model and I may eat too much Taco Bell and french fries, but my smile can make you smile. 

And if you don't like me, well, that's okay. I think you're an idiot because I'm awesome, but that's your choice. 

Let's be friends. 

The Start

I’ve been dealing with some Real Adult Problems in the past six months.

Moving out of my parent’s house (again), learning to remember to pay bills (and lessons learned through late fees), realizing that a bed time is something that both children and adults needs, roommates moving out unexpectedly and what it means to live alone, how to balance keeping a boyfriend in mind when making decisions but also keeping my independence, realizing my body no longer can eat $15 worth of Taco Bell at once like my 19 year old self had no problem doing, having to wear both an ankle brace and a knee brace when I exercise because I am falling apart a little bit.

Things like that.

Adulting is not what you think it will be when you are 16 and can’t wait to be on your own, and it’s certainly not what you think it will be when you are 22 and considering your soon-to-be life after college.

I have proved both of these facts very well (or very poorly, however you look at it).

I didn’t ever think when I was 16, let alone 22, that I would be dealing with breaking a lease with a roommate not once but twice, having to stay in a hotel room for several nights because of a disturbing situation with a stalker knowing where I lived, struggling with alcohol, dealing with something along the lines of a food dependency because I was lonely, or learning to be content and joyful about where God has allowed me to be career-wise.

This isn’t what the movies lead me to believe would happen.

One of my favourite lines of all time from any movie is Rosie O’Donnell’s sage wisdom to Meg Ryan in Sleepless In Seattle: “You don’t want to be in love, you want to be in love in a movie.”

I think this could be applied to everything in life, at least for me.

Writing / blogging things out has become a form of therapy for me, so I present to you my plans with my blog for the next little bit: A series. Over the next several blog entries / weeks, I will blog about different Adult Things I have learned / am learning, and how they are not what I expected or originally perceived.

I am calling this series, fittingly, You Don’t Want To _____, You Want To ______ In A Movie.

Here we go.

The Newlyweds

[Because airports are great places to people watch and creep on conversations in lines in front of you and gain inspiration.]

Michael knew airports and flying were stressful and complicated.

He knew this was just how it was supposed to be.

But he forgot about the stress he was supposed to feel every time he looked over at Ellie.

"Why do I need so many pieces of paper?" she muttered, more to herself Michael guessed than to him. "Just give me one for all the flights and luggage combined and I promise I won't loose it."

Michael smiled for the two hundred and fifty-seventh time that morning and slipped his hand into Ellie's.

She immediately looked up at him, a huge grin gracing her face, all thoughts of paper complaints forgotten at his action.

"How ready are you for Hawaii?" Michael said, grinning himself.

"SO READY!" Ellie squealed, squeezing his hand as hard as she could.

Michael tried to make himself cognizant of the things around him - the long security line, the grumpy airport staff, the hurried feel of the building.

Maybe if Ellie's fingers weren't entwined with his he would have had a better shot at paying attention.

But he didn't really want to test that theory.

"Sweetie, don't forget to take your belt off," Ellie said softly as she slipped her shoes off for the security line.

"Right, right, thanks darling," Michael replied before kissing her forehead. "Excuse me, sir?"

The attendant looked up from the monitor slowly, an annoyed look on his face trying to be covered up by an obvious fake smile plastered on his lips only. "Yes?"

"Could, do you think my wife and I could keep our wedding rings on through the scanner?"

The attendant blinked. A genuine smile began to form, covering his entire face. "Newlyweds?"

"Yes sir," Michael replied proudly, putting his arm around Ellie.

"Three days strong," Ellie added, staring up at Michael with a dreamy look.

The attendant chuckled, then said, "Sure, keep 'em on."

"Really? Thanks, man!" Michael said, a feeling of wanting to hug the attendant sweeping over him.

"It's my wife and I's fifteenth anniversary this weekend," the attendant continued as Michael unloaded his electronics into a plastic hub.

"Fifteen? Congratulations!" Ellie said happily.

"Still feels like yesterday," the attendant said, looking at the monitor again but still smiling.

"Fifteen," Michael repeated. "I can't wait."

"We're on our way to our honeymoon in Hawaii!" Ellie offered enthusiastically.

"I went there with my wife too," the attendant said, his smile getting bigger. "Say hi to the island for me."

"We will!" both Michael and Ellie said in unison.

"Have a good flight and happy honeymoon," the attendant chuckled.

"Bye!" Ellie called with a wave as she was barked at by another attendant to come through.

Michael sighed happily as he held his hands up for another security officer to scan him and pat him down.

"All right, you're good," the officer grumbled, gesturing for him to leave and leave quickly.

"Thank you!" Michael called out as he grabbed his bag and headed towards Ellie up ahead.

The officer stared at him for a moment, an almost smile coming to her face. "You're welcome," she muttered before barking for the next person in line.

Ellie put out her hand for Michael who immediately took it, brought it to his lips, and kissed it softly.

"Gate nine, husband," Ellie said, the dreamy look still in her eyes.

"Gate nine, wife," Michael responded, squeezing her hand tightly as they walked towards their plane. "Whoever said airports are stressful was obviously not with their new beautiful wife."

"And oh hey, Mulaney, we've got like an old turnip in the fridge. Would you like that, would that be good for you? I know you don't drink."

This isn't going to be pretty.

I used to drink. A lot.

I started drinking when I was in college, really for all the cliche reasons you can think. My friends were doing it, I wanted to fit in, I liked how I felt like I could get away with anything when I was drunk, I felt pretty when I drank, those kind of bs reasons.

I never learned how to drink socially. I drank until I was drunk and could forget who I wanted to be. I got addicted to that really, really fast, and never recovered.

I love belonging to Jesus now, but for a while I didn't. One reason I drank was to try and forget about Him. He just smiled and pursued me all the more until I finally realized there was no point to life without Him.

I knew a lot of the ways I was living when I didn't love Him couldn't continue when I started loving Him again, but I thought I could squeeze drinking under the table and hope He wouldn't care.

But the problem was I didn't just drink. I became a different version of myself when I drank, and that version didn't include listening or loving Jesus.

After pretending I didn't have a drinking problem for years, I finally stood in my kitchen one night after coming home from work and wept.

And then I poured out all the alcohol I had in my apartment.

Next month will have been two years since I last drank.

This might be the most cliche of all: I don't think a day goes by when I don't want to drink.

Because the two year mark is coming up, I spent some time a few weeks ago thinking about drinking, and wondering if I could start drinking again, teaching myself how to drink socially.

It felt innocent enough to think like this. I told myself I had a boyfriend whom I could drink with who cared enough about me to keep me mindful of what my limit was, I told myself I could go out with my sister and her friends when they occasionally have a casual drink and she would keep an eye on me, I told myself I could control myself.

I knew I was lying to myself.

I know that I will probably never be able to drink again. I don't know if I will ever have enough willpower to just drink one.

But I'm learning that I don't need to feel shame for that.

I'm learning that the people who really love me, the people I should be surrounding myself with, will respect me enough to respect this addiction.

That doesn't mean I don't have days that just randomly pop up like today where literally all I want to do is have a drink and then five more.

I've learned ways to cope with days like today, and I'm still learning. I'm learning to immediately remove myself from situations where alcohol is present because while I don't see alcohol as a bad thing and the thought of judging people for drinking has never even entered my mind, I know that some days just seeing someone enjoying a beer is enough to take me to a place in my mind that isn't okay.

Here's another thing that's really, really not pretty that I'm having a hard time even writing down.

I don't have a problem at all telling people I don't drink. I have stolen the John Mulaney line of, "I used to drink, and then I drank too much, and had to stop," more times that I can count.

What I do mind is having to admit to things I've written down today, that alcohol is an addiction for me and I will never get over or stop having really, really bad days like today.

What I do mind is having to leave friend groups or distance myself from people I like because alcohol is included in the mix and some days I simply cannot be present in the presence of alcohol.

Just know that if it hurts you that I can't be present, believe me it hurts me about a hundred thousand times more. And also believe I just broke down crying writing that sentence.

Everyone struggles with things, but I guess none of us really like admitting we're human.

Hi, my name is Meagan, and I constantly would like a drink.

Moon And Stars

You could have heard the slap all over the campground.

Not a girly, just-enough-to-wake-you-up kind of slap, but a heavy handed, full on slap that resounded and echoed.

I thought about that slap for years after I saw it happen. Mostly I wondered why she chose to slap him instead of punch him and break his nose, which was what he deserved.

It wasn’t until years later when I was an adult and dealing with that kind myself that I realized she slapped him because he wasn’t good enough for a punch.

I was nine years old when my mom slapped my father on our camping trip.

                                         *                *                *  

My mom loved camping, always had. She said she grew up with it and it reminded her of a more peaceful time, and that the woods gave her hope.

My nine year old self didn’t really understand this, but I liked to pretend that I did.

“We’re going to Hope, Hope, Hoooope!” my younger sister and I used to chant while we helped my mom pack up the car with our camping essentials, pretending we didn’t notice my father passed out on the couch, a beer can still in his hand.

I always knew my father loved me, I was sure of it. When he actually came home after work instead of going to a bar, he used to tickle my sister and I on the floor of our living room, my sister and I shrieking with delight, telling him to stop even though we never wanted him to. He would grab us both up, one in each arm, and shower us with kisses, telling us over and over that he loved us.

He had this phrase he liked to tell us: “You are my stars and your mother is my moon.”

He was good to us, my sister and I. So I learned to just think of him as not my father when he drank.

I don’t think my mom ever learned that trick.

Instead, she would plaster on a smile when he packed up several cases of beer in the back of the car for our camping trips and grasp the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.

My father seemed to rally a little when we got to the campground, even unloaded the car and helped my mother set up our tent. That first night as we sat around a campfire that he actually built for us, he only had four beers.

We could easily handle him with only four beers.

The second day, however.

My mom normally did her research before we went on camping trips, making sure there were no concerts or events nearby where he could get more alcohol than what he brought with him. I guess she just forgot this time.

I watched my mother’s face go white when we first heard the sounds of distant music. Not even ten minutes later, my father stood up from his chair and kissed my mom’s forehead.

“Going for a walk, be back soon,” he said, patting my sister and I on the head as he walked by.

I watched him walk away, knowing that he wasn’t going to return as my father.

                                         *                *                *  

My sister and I were wading in the creek together when the rain started. We didn’t mind, we were already wet, so what was the harm?

I think we both screamed when the first roar of thunder resounded.

It wasn’t that I was afraid of storms. We had our fair share of thunderstorms where we lived, and I almost liked the rain.

But this thunder was foreign. It sounded like it was right next to me, like it had snuck up behind me and yelled right in my ear.

“Emily Katherine! Emily Katherine, get your sister now!”

I grabbed Cesi’s hand and ran towards my mom as fast as my legs would go. I couldn’t remember the last time she had called me by my full name.

“Come on,” she said, a forced smile making her face look strange. “We’re going to sit in the tent and play Uno.”

There was no sign of my father; he had only been gone for three hours.

I didn’t start to wonder if he was coming back to our campsite until six hours had past, and the rain wasn’t letting up, and it was well past my regular bedtime.

                                        *                *                *  

“Mommy, the tent is wrong,” Cesi said, trying to hold back tears. I don’t think my mother or I had noticed that water had begun to find its way into the tent until Cesi pointed it out.

My mother didn’t respond for a moment; she just stared out at the rain pouring down.

“Okay,” she finally said. “We’re packing up the car now.”

We put Cesi in the car and my mother and I quickly began packing everything away. The rain had been coming down so hard for so long that we were both covered in mud by the time we got the tent halfway down, having slipped too many times to count.

I had just slipped again and had lifted my face up to the sky to get the mud off when I heard him yell.

“Let me help!”

I thought it was strange that my father’s voice had gotten so much deeper. And as I was helped to my feet, I found my father’s arms around me foreign and unknown.

When he had stood me up and looked me over to make sure I wasn’t hurt, I realized he wasn’t my father. I tried to fight the instinct to cower, unsure what to do with a stranger holding onto my arm.

“I’m Ben,” he hollered over the rain. “I’m campin’ with my family over yonder, and saw you’ns havin’ a struggle and reckoned I could help.”

“Okay,” I yelled back, not even quite sure what he had just said. I had only read about accents like his, never heard one up close and in person.

He ran over to my mother and said something to her I couldn’t quite make out, both because of the storm and his accent. Whatever he said, my mother cracked, and smiled the first genuine smile I had seen all weekend.

We had the tent down and everything packed in the car in less than 30 minutes thanks to Ben. I jumped into the car with my sister and stripped, throwing my soaking clothes in the back and changing into mostly dry ones.

I watched as my mother and Ben stood by the car and talked; I tried to guess what they were saying just from watching my mother’s face and Ben’s expressive use of his hands.

After a few moments, my mother shook his hand, then climbed into the car herself.

“Here, momma,” I said, handing her dry clothes.

“What would I do without my Em,” my mother smiled, squeezing my hand.

                                        *                *                *  

I woke up to the sound of the car door being slammed. I wasn’t sure how long I had slept, but it was long enough for the rain to die down to a soft sprinkle. Slightly dazed from sleep, I opened my own car door to see where my mother had gone.

That’s when I heard the slap.

It sounded like a gunshot from where I stood. I closed my eyes and tried to get my bearings, my heart beating fast.

When I opened my eyes, I saw my father standing a few hundred feet away, his body slightly slumped, his hand pressed against his cheek. And my mother, standing next to him.

At least I thought it was my mother. She looked so unlike her, her eyes more calm than I had ever seen them before, her back straight. I don’t think I ever knew how tall she was until I saw her standing straight next to my father.

It took me a moment before I realized the sound was a slap, and the slap had come from my mother’s hand.

“Get in the car,” I heard her say, and began to back towards the car before I realized she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking to my father.

He didn’t say a word, but quickly walked towards me, seeming to not even see me as he opened my car door and got inside next to my sister.

I slid into the passenger’s seat and waited on my mother. After a moment, she walked to the car, got in, and pulled out of the campsite, reaching over to take my hand in hers as she drove us home.

“You are my stars,” she whispered to me, keeping her eyes on the road. “And I’m still your father’s moon.”