I’m not very good at making friends. As an adult, I find it incredibly awkward and a bit embarrassing. Yes, I’ve met fun people and spent time with them, had dinner and drinks, hung out at concerts…but there seems to be something missing. A lack of connection, that invisible bond. The kind you can only make when you’re little.
The few I consider my true friends are ones I don’t even remember meeting. There’s G, my oldest family friend–we’ve known each other since birth. And B, who was my closest friend since the age of two–we grew up two doors down from one another. Then there’s M, my bestie from high school and college, those oh-so-formative years. With all of them, huge chunks of time may pass with little to no communication, and we’ll pick up exactly where we left off, with complete ease and comfortability. These people know me inside and out; they are a part of my life and accept me for exactly who I am, without judgment.
In my adult life, I’ve had numerous groups of friends, but we often outgrow each other. They cycle through, and the next group comes along. And I wouldn’t call any of them my closest friends–we don’t have all that much in common. They’re not the first people who come to mind when I’ve got important news to share. And if we were never to talk again, I think I’d be okay. I crave the connection of a best friend, yet it simply isn’t there…and I don’t know how to cultivate it. Maybe it involves more trust. Or more effort. How do you care deeply about someone without all that history between you? The answer eludes me.