You're not my friend
I'm not yours. And that's okay.
My 41st birthday was two weeks ago. I share a birthday week with an associate of mine. Always have. After all, birthdays are not like Easter. They do not float. When someone’s birthday falls on the same week as your own, it’s easy to remember. If you give the tiniest of little shits. I’d made a casual note, a wink if you will, to a different associate that the anniversary of my birth was approaching. All this to say, I did the girl thing of reminding.
The day came. Zero mention of my yearly rotation round the sun was mentioned at my place of employment. Though I was asked if I saw a work note and if I could please get right on that and respond promptly. Despite the requester taking days, weeks or months to respond to me. But it’s okay. I’m over it.
Once again I mentioned, “casually” (but really passively strategically) that I wasn’t available for a call due to being out for a modest celebration. It involved espresso martinis, if you’re wondering. Then, at nine pm, the associate who shares my birth week who demanded a response to a note made (despite taking days, weeks or months to respond to mine but it’s okay I’m over it) sent me a text. It read: “Happy birthday, friend!”
“Friend!”
Friend.
…Friend?
Excuse me and what the fuck?
To be fair, I have removed all work associates from my near dormant Facebook. Which is usually where the prompt of “It’s so and so’s birthday, leave them a pre-written Zuck message to show them you care” dialog box. As already stated though, we were born the same week. Every year. We’ve known each other several years.
I didn’t respond to the text. I didn’t have an answer that wasn’t overtly or passively rude.
What triggered me wasn’t so much the lateness of the hour, but the use of the word “friend.”
Words mean things. Friends are, generally speaking, aware of what is happening in their friend’s life. Friends, generally speaking, know what a friend is interested in. They know the names of their family members, pets, favorite celebrity crush. What show they’re binging, the books they’re obsessed with, and what petty meaningless trifle might ruffle their feathers. Like forgetting their birthday and shooting off a throwaway text at nine pm while calling them “friend.“ Random example.
I don’t think this person knows any of those things about me.
You know what? That’s fine. We don’t all need to be friends. We can be associates, co-workers, acquaintances.
We need to get comfortable using more than one label. Labels are useful, they define what things are. Just as importantly, labels define what things are not.
Words that define relationships are defined by those relationships. I don’t call anyone who’s not my mom my mom. I call no one my daughter as I have no daughter. I do not accost men with “how’s it going, husband?” as no man is my husband.
Ergo, I’m not going to call someone who is not my friend my “friend.”
But the hitch, the catch to this particular example, is this person may feel as if I am his friend. Because I have listened. I have cheerled. I have helped. I have guided. I have remembered. I know the names of his family. His pet. What things interest him. What his goals are.
It’s just he doesn’t seem to know mine. He may not even be aware of this Substack. Or that I have a blog. A budding YouTube channel. A championship buckle…
In fact, those who I have called my “friends” in the recent past may not know those things either.
Many of us, me included, have had a plethora of one-sided relationships. We are emotional slot machines and the player always wins. Put in one coin, dozens pour out. But after so many lever pulls, the till is empty.
Hasif posted another banger that reflects a similar sentiment “They Love being Loved” which you should read here.
Many people are big advocates of “give and take” relationships. They laud “self sacrifice.” They praise selflessness. They admire our ability to listen. To give. They need someone to give so that they may take. And take. And take again. “Thanks, friend!” they’ll say, to soften the ground for a future harvest.
I’m not sure if those people even know they’re like that. Some might, but most may not. They exist having many of their needs met by others. They are the boy who grows to a man who continually goes to “The Giving Tree” only to sit on a stump in his old age. A book which, now as a 41 year old woman, I see as a giant problem. A lesson that if you love someone, you give until you’re dead and have nothing left to give. Then you let the taker sit on what little of you remains.
I only want to be friends with those who want to be mine. I am in the phase of life where I’m allowing ships to sink as I paddle away. I will not be the only person to listen, to make efforts, plans, or sacrifices. Find someone else to cheerlead you. Find someone else to make you feel good about what you accomplished. Don’t come to me for my branches to build your house.
I need those branches to build my own.
So no, you are not my friend. I am not yours. Do not define terms. Use your terms according to how they’re defined.
Incidentally, one friend did reach out both via the Facebook Zuck message and a personal text to wish happiness on my birthday. A person I admire greatly, who doesn’t ever try to dull my shine but who hypes me up. Who I always have fun with. Who puts in an effort to see me. I reached back out to her and said as much, that I wanted her to be my friend and that I would do better to make that effort (she lives in Las Vegas!). I called her the other night. Like with the voice function on the phone like it was the golden age of the 90s. She then called me back. We spoke like two adults. We made loose plans to meet up halfway between Texas and Nevada (probably Colorado because Colorado is the shizzle). She’ll do her part, I know she will, and I’ll do mine.
Friendships only work if both give. No taking. Both giving. That’s the kind of friendship I want and I will no longer settle for less.