Foul-Weather Friends?
What’s the word for a friend that only shares the worst parts of themselves with you? Why are you left out of the good parts?
I think I have the opposite of “fair-weathered friends.” Or maybe not quite the opposite, per se, as much as a different variation of them. I’ve always had a specific reverence for my friendships, placed each and every person I care about in their own unique place in my life. Adulthood gets busy, of course, and time and space separates all friendships. But the ones that last, last. Right?
I’ve come to realize that I’m the beater friend. The therapist. When a friend is going through a breakup, or a death, or an illness, I’m one of the first calls. I know how to fill someone else’s cup from my own quite well. I’ve never once questioned being that person, the support. Who am I to ever question a friend in need?
It’s emotionally heavy at times, but I’ve always taken pride in being that friend. I’ve always thought that it’s meaningful, that it says something about me, to be the person that someone goes to for comfort when they feel like everything is crashing down. I try to reach out when I can, to extend myself in whatever way is needed to help my friends get back to their normal selves. To me, that’s a purpose I’ve always taken pride in.
To such friends, it seems that may be my only purpose.
As soon as the happiness comes back to them, as soon as they find their joy and are truly living again, I seem to lose my space in their lives. I’m good for talking you through a breakup, for being a shoulder to cry on, but evidently not for sharing in your joy. I’m there when needed, but when not, I seem to be an afterthought, if ever a thought at all.
For a long time I haven’t questioned this, or even been quite fine with being that friend. Everyone has a role, right? If my role is bringing people back down to earth and reminding them of their worth, then I have no problem with that. That seems to be the part I play in most friendships. Someone needs to be that person.
But why am I limited to being that person? Is there something about me that brings comfort to the sad, but discomfort to the happy? Am I the reason my friends don’t seem to want to include me in their joy? Am I doing something wrong?
But then… I do have friends that include me in their successes, that want me to know when they’re flourishing, and want to see me flourish, too. Sometimes they do want me at their milestone events, or even just to have coffee and lunch on a sunny day when we don’t have anything to complain about except the heat and how much we need a vacation. Some people do hold space for me in their joy, they do enjoy sharing their light with me.
Why then do so many others, friends I’ve had for years, seem to think of me only on their greyest days?
This year hasn’t been gentle, or kind, or even all that fun. I’ve lost and lost and lost, and my body has shut itself down. Cries for help have gone entirely unanswered by the same friends who turn to me in their time of need. If not unanswered, then worse – overlooked and swept under the rug.
I get that everyone is their own priority, especially in this crazy, evil world we find ourselves in. Protect your peace, be there for yourself, all that. But I’m getting hopelessly tired of empty texts once every three months asking for help, while my messages never earn a response of their own.
I don’t think that’s what friendship is. I don’t think friendship is a message when you feel bad because you know your friend is suffering, but you have no interest in actually helping. That’s relieving your own guilt, not being a friend.
I’ve never minded being the advice friend or the therapist friend or the come-over-and-cry-into-ice-cream friend. But I’ve spent the last two years watching my friends joy through social media stories with other people while I’m left picking up my own pieces alone. Is it really too much to ask to be a part of that joy, too? Or is there really no purpose for me once the sun comes back out?
I have more love in my life now than I ever have, romantically and familial, and yet there’s an unmoving pit in my chest that harbors a sense of loneliness I haven’t been able to understand for a while. I miss my friends. I miss the years of laughing until my sides hurt, of hearing every little detail and every future plan and hope. I miss having my cup filled while I fill someone else’s. My friendships often no longer feel like friendships, but rather ghosts of people who once loved me trying to convince themselves that they still do.
Maybe that’s just adulthood. Maybe my mom was right, and friendships really don’t last outside of youth. Maybe it’s just me and my family and my life partner from here on out, and my body will come to accept that.
I just think that a warning might’ve been nice. Or honesty. An “i miss you” text twice a year, at this point, does more harm than it does good. If you missed me, you’d answer any one of the calls or texts you declined when I needed you. Or when I just wanted to know how things are. Maybe it’s naive of me, but I don’t think that’s what friendship is. In fact, I know that’s not what friendship is. Because I have platonic love, real, true, honest platonic love in my life. Unconditional friendship that sees me through the good and the bad, that comes to me for comfort and for joy.
So why do I grieve for those that don’t? Why does this pit in my chest persist, even as I tell myself this isn’t serving me? Why do I let other peoples choice dictate the way I view myself?
It’s difficult watching people you love share their joy through a phone screen, only to never be welcomed into it in person. I’ve always been afraid of losing my friendships, I’ve never wanted to leave anyone behind. I suppose I never thought to consider if I was the one being left behind instead.