I don’t have friends. Not friends that you can put your hand on, not real ones. Not “meat” friends. I have my friends online, in the ether, where they are at a safe distance. They can’t hurt me so much that way. I can run faster than they can, right?
So making a flesh-and-blood friend is a pretty rare event for me. So rare I can count on my fingers the number of times it’s happened…ever. Ever, as in not just this week or this month, not just “oh I haven’t made a friend in a while” or “gee, I only made five friends since I left school” but ever, as in “I haven’t trusted ten people in my entire fucking life.”
People I ask over for dinner and I actually look forward to it, people I really want to see. People I trust. Everyone has some, you know. Some people have more than others. I guess it’s just a way of life for some people, to welcome new friends with open arms. But I’m socially phobic, and so riddled with anxiety it’s pretty hard for me to even look people in the eye. (If I ever looked you calmly in the eye, congratulations. You may be one of seven or eight people I ever trusted.)
Yesterday someone I trusted stole my medication. From my medicine cabinet. Where it was tucked away behind the baby powder. I know it was yesterday, because I only filled the prescription the day before that. And I have a pretty good idea who it was, because – not trusting many people to visit – I had only one set of visitors in the house since I filled the prescription.
It was a prescription my dentist gave me to ease the anxiety of an upcoming dental visit. I don’t lie to my doctor to get extra meds; I ask for what I need because I really need it. There were four pills. Now there are two.
In addition to that, half of my husband’s medication is missing from the kitchen. And, as is the case with me, he doesn’t take it for fun.
I don’t have friends.
Now I remember why.