They always ask me why
I don’t go out more often or why
I like to be alone;
but what’s more upsetting is that they never just ask me.
They nudge me to go to parties
(as if preparing a face for a social
event with people I don’t know
screaming and spitting in my ear
is that easy enough to do on short notice).
They stop answering my daily phone calls
(as if my interacting with them is holding me back).
They reassure me that I will find my
friends in time but follow up that sentence
with caveats including, but not limited to:
you can’t find good friends until you find some bad ones;
there are shy people like you out there, you just need to look for them;
and my favorite...
but you’re probably so lonely. What’s the
harm of a little carefree time with some new faces?
Well, I am lonely, Mom,
but I feel infinitely more lonely racking
my brain for things to say so that that
uncomfortable little silence doesn’t creep into
the conversation and it takes
so much effort.
I am not asking for much. My standards are really not that high
but it seems that most people I meet are
more interested in people more interesting than me.
And this is when it starts—those thoughts
that, every two weeks like clockwork, tiptoe
into my head like my brain belongs to them.
Because, Mom, it would be so much easier to make
friends if I didn’t have to wear long sleeves even
on days when the humidity swallows you
the moment you walk outside and you would
give anything for clean wrists—
Because, Mom, it would be so much easier to make
friends if my depression actually liked to be around
other people but, FYI: it doesn’t—
Because, Mom, I know you’re just trying
to stop me from making your mistakes—
But, Mom, you didn’t make any mistakes—
Save for the one when you believed you were broken.
Because, Mom, I know I inherited this sadness from you—
But, Mom, don’t worry. Your baby girl will be just fine.
You can let go now.
And, Mom—please remember, even when I am not
there to remind you: if your flesh is not the flesh
of God than God does not exist.