Processing Friendship: I Forget to Respond to Texts

To begin reading this series at the beginning, click here.

To read the previous installment in this series, click here. 

 I frequently think about someone, decide to text them to check-in and then realize that they texted me days ago and I never responded. 

I feel terrible. Most of my friends are super gracious about it, but I think the issue I have with texting back probably contributes to my feeling alone. 

I love feeling connected. I love having people to laugh with, have deep conversations with, and support. 

But I have largely learned to live my life alone. I'm used to just being on my own. It's been that way my whole life. I remember my mom telling other people when I was little, how I would just play alone in my room and she hardly even knew I was there. While I was in my room playing alone, I was pretending to have relationships. 

I'm starting to realize that my family - my husband and kids - has largely operated the same way. We keep to ourselves, in the same way I keep to myself. I didn't realize I was creating a caccoon for myself, but I was. I thought that if I could parent in the right way, that I could raise a tribe for myself. I could have the kind of relationships that I crave, with my kids once they were grown.

Somewhere along the way I realized that that mentality was not healthy, and being my kids primary source of relationship was not healthy for them. I realized that I want them to develop other relationships and go out into the world so that when I'm gone, they won't be lonely. 

There is grief in letting go of that dream. For several years, I had focused on that as my only hope for the kind of relationships I crave. 

 I've let go of that dream and I'm left back at square one trying to figure out what is wrong with me and why I can't seem to form the kind of friendships I long for. 

I want the relationships but I don't have the mechanisms within myself to form them. I think it's a combination of different things: 

1. The belief that the only way people will accept me is if I take up as little space in their life as possible. This involves a lot of hiding myself and staying quiet, and telling myself that people don't want to hear from me. 

2. Fear that if I allow myself to be seen, I will be rejected. 

3. The assumption that I am not likeable that isn't cured when people tell me I am. 

 I'm not sure if these beliefs can be permanently changed. I've been trying for a long time. I don't feel like I've made progress. When I make progress, something happens to derail it, and I don't know that I am better off then I was before I made the progress. 

Examining Myself

 There are times of life that lend themselves to assessing where we are, where we've been, where we want to go and how our current routines, mindsets and trajectory support or block our goals.

My birthday is one of those times for me. I turn 44 on January 20. 

Honestly, I don't remember what my goals were when I turned 43. I'm not sure I had any beyond continuing graduate school and surviving (if the Lord was willing). 

I haven't had a lot of goals in a while because I've felt disillusioned and unsure of whether people actually change and grow. 

The last 7 years have been really hard for me, and the last year has been one of the hardest yet. Facing truths I had not previously been able to acknowledge, feeling the weight of my own shortcomings and loneliness all converged to feel like a millstone around my mental neck. 

Toward the end of 2025, I made some decisions for myself that seem to be supporting my mental health. I'm not ready to talk specifics yet (maybe not ever), but I'm feeling hopeful. 

8 years ago, I created this graphic to communicate the mission behind my goals and I think it's still the mission behind all of my goals. 

These are my goals for this year:

1. Graduate with a Master's degree in Marriage and Family Therapy.

2. Pass the test to get my Associate's license.

3. Start my career as a Marriage & Family Therapist.

4. Trust God with my identity and relationships - I will know that I am doing this by being less impacted by whether or not I am included by other people, I will initiate more within relationships, and I will be more consistent in communication. Overall, I will show up authentically in relationships and give without expecting anything in return. 

5. Designate specific spaces where my broom, mop and hairbrush belong. 

6. Take medications consistently. 

7. Be consistent with health goals. 

8. Take a vacation with Michael to celebrate our 25th anniversary. 

9. Consistently use budgeting software.

10. Be more engaged in family life. 

Processing Friendship: Labels & Hiding

To read the previous installment, click here. 

To start from the beginning, click here. 

I was around 9 years old. My mom had a daycare, and asked her ("the swimmer") to come and supervise the daycare for a bit while my mom went to an appointment. 

As my mom left, she arrived but she didn't come into the house. She made her way into our backyard where we had a pool. She got into the pool. 

I was in the house with several babies and a few toddlers. 

I remember watching her get into the pool and being confused. She was supposed to be there to take care of these kids while my mom was gone. Honestly, maybe my mom coaxed her to come by telling her that I would do the work but that, for legal purposes, there had to be an adult present. I don't know what the arrangement was. 

What I know is that 9 year old me felt overwhelmed by the responsibility. At some point a couple of the babies began crying. As I was trying to attend to the babies, the phone rang. The swimmer yelled from the pool for me to answer the phone. I didn't feel capable of answering the phone while caring for the crying babies. 

Eventually the swimmer came into the house and demanded to know why I hadn't answered the phone. I responded curtly. 

I later learned that the swimmer had told others how "snotty" I am. I'm not defending the way I spoke to her, but it's understandable that a nine-year-old trying to hold two crying babies, care for a third baby, and watch several toddlers -- might feel overwhelmed, abandoned and angry while the adult responsible for them takes a swim and yells demands from the pool.

Snotty is a label I've worn. I thought it was mine. It was applied to me frequently. Boys in my vicinity were allowed to bully, abuse and torture me, but if I responded in any way I was labeled as "snotty" or some other name to indicate I was the problem.

Throughout my life I've worn many labels. Some have been true, and some, I have come to understand, were never mine to wear. I wasn't snotty. I wasn't the problem. I was a sweet little girl who felt overwhelmed, abandoned and worthless - and sometimes acted and spoke out of those feelings. 

As I grew, I realized that if things were going to change, I had to change them (because I was the problem, remember?). I did this by quieting myself, by making myself smaller, by conforming myself to who my labelers thought I should be. At first, I thought I was safe out of the sight and hearing of my labelers, but eventually realized that nowhere was safe.  

It was a magnificent disappearing act. I maintained the form on the outside, but all of the beautiful, colorful and spirited parts of me receded into the darkest recesses of my body. What was left was a shell, a form, an ogre whose purpose was to keep me safe, but ultimately held me prisoner. 

Processing Friendship: Examining My Part

To read the previous installment in this series, click here. 

I had a boyfriend when I met my husband. My boyfriend was not present when we met, and it didn't occur to me to disclose to this new young man that I had a boyfriend. I wasn't trying to be dishonest, but it didn't naturally come up in conversation and I had no idea that Michael liked me as anything other than a friend. 

Michael discovered that I had a boyfriend when he told his friend (my boyfriend) about meeting me, and my boyfriend made the revelation.

I was shocked every time I found out that a boy liked me, because I tend to assume people don't. To varying levels, I dreaded having to interact with the boys I dated because I was terrified that they were going to discover that I wasn't worth dating. 

It generally does not occur to me that someone would want to talk to me or that my presence or viewpoint might be valuable. I assume that I will be in the way or a nuisance. I see myself as weird. As a preteen and teen, I liked weird things. I was a hipster about 10 years before being one was cool. I liked music that other people my age thought was weird. I enjoyed movies and books that nobody else I knew was watching and reading. I never liked cartoons. 

In the absence of relationships, I attached myself to celebrities/historical figures (Princess Diana, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, Elvis Presley, the Beatles) and music. I didn't have the resources to wear clothes I felt good in. I wore what was available to me, and my clothes were not reflective of current styles. I didn't wear pants so I stuck out at school. All of this labeled me as weird in my own mind. I always felt "other" at home too. Generally speaking, it didn't feel as though anyone had ever really liked me. 

As I realized that the manipulative tactics I had grown up using were not effective, I switched tactics. Eventually, I settled on staying out of people's way. I take up as little space in people's lives as I can. I don't insert myself into other people's lives. I stay in the shadows, hoping to be invited in. I process the non-invitations as rejection.

I don't call people because I assume it would bother them if I did. I don't invite people over, because I assume they would rather not come. I don't start conversations because I assume people would rather be talking to someone else. 

I take up as little mental space as possible, and my body takes up a lot more space than it should. The irony is not lost on me. I believe these two issues are related. 

A few years ago I was diagnosed with ADHD. This revelation was like a light switch being turned on for me. It turns out, a lot of people with ADHD also have something called Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (Shout out to my friend Kim for bringing this to my attention.) What this looks like for me is constantly being on the look out for signs that I am being rejected and then responding with intense pain when I find them. 

So cliques at church feel like big, flashing signs that say "stay out, loser!!" Pictures on social media of other people I know hanging out with each other feels like someone saying "we didn't invite you because we hate you!"

Healing my relationship with friendship, and myself, is going to look like being able to take up space in people's lives and in rooms I am in, and telling myself the truth when I believe the lies that my brain is telling me. 

I can't control other people. I can't make them include me or enjoy my company. I am the only person I can control, and truthfully, more than anyone else has excluded me, I think I've excluded myself. 

To be continued . . . 

 

Processing Friendship Part 2

 To read Part 1, click here.

As we moved within California and then to Texas, and I encountered new systems, I had different experiences. At the first place, I found a stockpile of greeting cards in the church building. So I  documented all the church members birthdays and anniversaries, and used the greeting cards to acknowledge them. I loved doing this. It gave me a great sense of purpose. 

When we moved to Texas, it was like moving to an all new world where people suddenly took an interest in me. I seemed to matter for the first time. When we first arrived, members of the congregation asked me questions like, "what are your hobbies?" I had no answer to this question. What I liked to do had never seemed relevant to anyone else, and most of what I enjoyed doing wasn't something I could really do with other people. I lived a mostly solitary, internal life. Existing at this congregation and within that group of people was a breeding ground for my self-esteem.  

I had a friend group for the first time. I was talking on the phone, spending time with people. I was outgoing and extroverted. I felt like my true self. 

In both of these instances, it seems the growth of my self confidence and security was interpreted in a negative light, and I was punished.

My training in systems theory and work with my own therapist has helped me to see that the system in which I existed would not allow for me to change. The thing about systems is that they work to maintain homeostasis. The quiet, solitary, internal, blank slate was the role I played in the system, and it's all that system would allow for. 

I withdrew from my social circle. The focus shifted from friendship and connection, to escaping the system. I did desperate and wrong things to accomplish this, and I lost sight of the purpose of leaving the system. The things I did to escape were counterproductive and harmful. 

I didn't get what I ultimately wanted: the space to be the truest version of myself. What I got was shame, isolation, regret and body weight. 

I've spent a lot of time and energy in healing from all of that, but I still find myself with loneliness, and unsure of how to overcome it. Talking about it is helping. Friends who have experienced similar things are sharing what they've learned, and that solves the issue of protocols to implement, and the connection I have longed for. 

To be continued . . . 

Processing Friendship

Sifting through my soul, trying to make it all make sense. Am I the cause of my loneliness? What is it about me that makes it difficult for me to connect? I have always felt "other". Like I'm on the outside looking in at the connections of others. The first time I remember feeling this, I was approximately 4 years old. 

I struggle with accepting that God loves me and forgives me, and that makes it difficult to believe that other people can and do. I've done a lot of sucky things to get people to like me. I acted in impulsive and hurtful ways that still haunt me. 

Around four I had an experience with overt rejection that I remember vividly. Another little girl and I were playing on the steps of the church. A group of older girls (I'm thinking they were 11 or 12) came along and made it a point to tell me to shut up and be very attentive to my friend. They called me stupid and pushed me away and told me that they couldn't stand me, while embracing the other girl. They were overtly rejecting me, while embracing her.

I can't remember if I did something to trigger this. I don't have a lot of other memories from this age. I don't remember having mean thoughts about people or scheming to do bad things. Most of the things I did were impulsive and I didn't take into consideration how my actions would impact others. I remember dropping a booster seat on another kids head as a joke, and then being mortified that it was a much bigger deal than I anticipated. I also made up lies about other people liking me in order to impress people. 

By 11 or 12 I had caught on that my actions weren't working and I shut completely down. I lost hope. It felt, and sometimes still feels, like a mental straightjacket. 

Recently I've been thinking through relationships over my lifetime. I've realized that even most of the people I might have considered to be my friends before the age of 15 - weren't really my friends. They didn't like me. They were annoyed by the things I did to get people to like to me. Which is understandable. 

Once, one of these "friends" read a letter, that they had received from another of my "friends", aloud to me. The person who had written the letter spent part of it talking negatively about me and how a boy had said that they would never "go out" with someone "like" me. I don't know what "someone like her" meant because I never asked. Even when she was reading it to me, I remember my face getting hot but I didn't even acknowledge what had been said about me. I don't know if the intent of reading the letter to me was to hurt me or to reveal how they all felt about me. I essentially proceeded as though it didn't happen. Looking back, it was obvious that these people were not really my friends. 

Right now I'm processing what this means. Does it mean that I was more flawed than everyone else and my actions made it impossible for me to have real connections? If so, was I born that way? What does that mean?

Was my immature and impulsive behavior what caused people to dislike me? Or did their dislike of me cause the immature and impulsive behavior? 

My instinct is to say that for whatever reason I had a deep, felt sense that I was unlovable, and this led to maladaptive behaviors that were hurtful and unlikeable by others and it all became a cycle that I struggled to exist outside of. Even though I completely stopped (but re-picked back up a few years later) the bad habits I had, I didn't know how to make amends and the relationships never changed. 

When I was 13, my family began considering a cross country move. I remember feeling excited to have a fresh start. Getting outside of the systems in which I had always existed seemed like a positive thing. 

In both of the new environments, I took advantage of the fresh starts and thrived . . . for a while.

To be continued . . . 

To the Little Girl I Used to Be: Scarlett Letters

To the Little Girl I Used to Be:

The words stung. 

Your sweet little girl heart couldn't understand a world where those words could be a lie. 

So you believed them. 

Blame for what happened to you turned to a name you answered to and lived by: Whore

Scarlett letters in the form of fat multiplied, and a prison you lived in. 

But the words were not true. 

It wasn't your fault. 

You didn't ask for it, or allow it to happen.

The shame heaped upon you was a projection of their shame, not yours. 

You can stop preserving those scarlett letters, and let the wounds heal. 

Whore is not a name you need to answer to or live by.

What We Taught Our Kids About Apologizing

We taught them to say, "will you forgive me?". Until we realized that asking to be forgiven creates an environment where the expected answer is 'yes'. If I'm not free to say no, yes means nothing. 

We came to the conclusion that putting pressure on a person we've already hurt was not the right way to apologize. 

I've come to understand that a believable and meaningful apology includes acknowledging the pain I've caused, and making a commitment to working on the issue so that it isn't repeated. Sometimes it is repeated, but I should be learning from each experience and closing the gap and the person I have hurt should be able to tell that.

As we learned to properly make amends ourselves, we taught our children to do the same. Here is what we taught our children about apologies:

We didn’t demand apologies from our children. Our goal was to instill a sense of responsibility, and a conscience about how to properly treat other people. We didn’t want lip service or a coerced apology that they resented giving. We wanted them to recognize that they had done something wrong/hurtful, and feel compelled to make amends for it. So we talked to them about what happened, shared our perspective and then sent them away to think, regulate their emotions and take action when they were ready to do it. They almost always made the apology without being told to do it. 

A true apology embodies responsibility and accountability. 

Responsibility bears the guilt of the actions without excuse and manipulation. It says, “I did this and I shouldn’t have. Instead, I should have done this other thing. My actions hurt you, and I’m sorry.” 

Accountability bears the weight of transparency, making amends and rebuilding trust. It does not require immediate trust. This looks like creating boundaries around the hurtful behavior so that it isn’t repeated, and seeking help to address the thoughts/feelings, etc that lead up to the hurtful behavior. 

The person I have hurt should not bear the responsibility of keeping me accountable. I should be seeking outside accountability as well. 

I should be taking the person I have hurt into consideration and asking what they need in order to begin to rebuild trust. 

Demanding trust before it is earned is manipulation, and giving trust before it is earned is denial. 

Apologies should be followed by changed behavior. Not all behaviors will be changed overnight, some may take time, but there should be evidence that I am working on it through doing the behavior less often, for less time or less intensity. 

A true apology also does not harm the person being apologized to. It isn’t always appropriate to reach out to a person I’ve hurt to apologize. Before I apologize, I should think about whether it is appropriate to do so. Is it appropriate for me to have contact with this person? 

I love the quote by Maya Angelou: do the best you can, until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” I’ve lived my life this way, and apologies are one thing that reflects this. As I’ve learned better, I’ve done better and taught my children to do the same. There have been many apologies and amends in my parenting journey, and I imagine there will be many more. 

Church Accountability

Contempt dripping from their words permeates my body through my ears and runs down my spine, making it difficult to sit still. The other sheep in The Flock injured and mistreated a sheep. When that sheep lost its ability to travel with the others, fell behind and was eaten by a wolf - those responsible for shepherding the flock led the rest of the sheep in mocking the wounded and left for dead sheep. 

I’m sure that sounds shocking, but it happens within churches sometimes. Members of the church harm another member, but instead of dealing with and disciplining the person who caused the harm, the person who was harmed is told to be quiet and “get over it”. 

Sometimes the person or persons who injure the other member apologize and the injured person is expected to immediately “drop it”. Instead of working with the person who committed the sin, thinking through what caused the behavior and what boundaries need to be put into place so it doesn’t happen again, it is all swept under a rug. When the injured person trips over all the junk under the rug, they are blamed. 

There comes a point when the rug, where it is all swept, is so full of junk that it is no longer viable to walk on. When the injured party decides to leave, the people in the church take no responsibility for the hazard the rug has become. 

People are responsible for their decisions, but when they are abused (sexually, emotionally, spiritually) within churches and people with the power to correct the problem don’t, it may create a situation where the victim has to choose between two true things. The Truth of how and where to worship and the Truth of how christians should treat people. 

If we won’t be introspective and consider our part in things, we are forcing people to make difficult decisions. 

If we won’t be introspective, consider our part in things and make amends, we are placing a stumbling block in the path of others. How can we have contempt for someone who trips over a stumbling block that we placed in their path?

Being “right" doesn't give anyone a pass to act wrongly. There is as much of a right way to treat people as there is a right way to do anything else. 

I wonder how many people who were "right" are going to have to give an account to Jesus for their actions when they were "right"?

What if?

I shared my story with the room, including the hurtful aftermath of words. The people in the room supportively rolled their eyes and lamented how stupid the response was. 

I felt the support. But the conversation routinely went to the careless and "stupid" words that people say in response to other people's pain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I moved in the periphery, scared to approach. I determined to wait to speak to the man who had lost his wife until I could do it without becoming emotional. 

I wanted to acknowledge his pain and sit with him in it, but I wanted to do it perfectly. 

Time went by, and I finally decided that I needed to go ahead and say something. I was avoiding him at this point. I couldn't speak to him about the weather if I hadn't acknowledged this terrible thing that had happened. 

So I spoke to him. I cried. We sat in silence. 

I don't know how he walked away feeling about the moment. I hope he felt supported, but I'm not sure he did. Maybe he walked away and has used what I said and our interaction as an example of the terrible things people said and did after he lost his wife.  

There are lists all over social media of all the "stupid" and "terrible" things that have been said to people in whatever situation they find themselves in. 

A complaint I often hear from people going through difficult situations is that nobody says anything at all. 

I have to wonder if there is a correlation between these two things. 

If we are judgmental of what people say, what is the likelihood they are going to get over their nerves to actually say something?

What if, in order to receive the support we long for, we have to be willing to see through the imperfect words used to provide it?

What if we assume that when people say things like, "well that's the best cancer to have" they mean "I hate that you're experiencing this but I'm also afraid to discourage you so I'm saying something that I feel is positive so you won't lose hope"?

Or, when they share their own experience, they are just trying to say, "you're not alone". 

Yes, we should all be trying to learn and grow, but we are all imperfect. We get nervous, and say dumb things. 

What if that's okay? What if we assume the best of each other and accept the words as the support they are intended to provide instead of judging the person who says them?

The Weight of Feeling Unloved

They studied women who lost weight and put it back on. 

Turns out, a huge percentage of them started gaining weight around the time a major even or abuse happened. It was their brain and bodies way of protecting them. 

So I asked myself, what was happening around the time I started gaining weight? What is my extra weight protecting me from? 

The answer I came to is this: My weight is protecting me from anyone seeing the real me. The real me is ugly and vile, and being overweight is like a boundary I set for myself to only be "so" comfortable and to never draw attention to myself or take up space. It's like my own punishment to myself where I remind myself that I am worthless and unloved before other people have to remind me and I experience the pain of being unloved.

Being loved for a few minutes isn't worth the experience of losing that love when I screw everything up. 

My body is a physical manifestation of the war between my desperate desire to be known with the utter terror of being seen. 

Sometimes all of this feels like it will never be healed. Will I ever get to the bottom of my self hatred and rejection so that I can move on with my life in peace?

In addition to my weight issue I struggle with Major Depressive Disorder. For the last few years I've struggled to have hope. Lately I've found myself singing these lyrics to myself when I'm struggling to have hope or to be confident that God is listening to my cries, "but I can be sure of this, the Lord will answer when I call to Him". It's not a cure but it renews my mind and refocuses my heart heavenward.