I don't remember how old I was when I started making friends. Like, not "kid you play with at school because you want to play and, hey, there's somebody" but people that I would hang out with outside of a formal setting. I think it was in third grade, though I'm not sure--I think this is probably later than most, but it was never really a thing my parents actively forced (I have no idea if forced socialization of children towards people they might or might not like is a good thing or a bad thing or neutral--just an observation). But I had developed things I liked--I liked sports, I liked video games, I knew other kids from school who liked sports and video games, so hey, let's hang out and play sports and video games. Not that complicated.
One time, when I was about to go to a friend's house, I was getting excited, as little kids do, and probably annoying my dad about it. So he told me something which absolutely crushed my spirit. "You know, he doesn't actually like you. He's just trying to be nice."
What he said was probably not true. If it was true, he would have no way of knowing that it was. And yet, nearly twenty years later, I remember that. It has stuck, sometimes at the forefront of my own personal psyche and other times laying dormant in the back of my mind.
My personal insecurities are something which I have had difficulty overcoming throughout my life. I have lived in a constant state of inadequacy and developed a strong sense that I stand out for all the wrong reasons. And the often-subconscious belief that I am constantly being humored and that I am a social burden remains, no matter how much I try to tell myself that it is all in my head.
To be clear, this is not a reflection on my friends, who are wonderful people and who have given me no actual reason to believe that they invite me to social events as a matter of pity. Some people reading this, I'm sure, are among my truly close circle of friends. Others are people with whom I interact sporadically, maybe "only" on Twitter (while there are certain limits to them, I don't consider Twitter friendships to be irrelevant). And some are people who have read and enjoy my writing, about which the overwhelming majority of comments are positive, or at least constructive or engaging in their usually minor and fair criticisms.
But I constantly try to find ways that I am an outsider. Many of my friends are (slightly) younger than I am, so I internalize myself as the old guy. Many come from more affluent backgrounds, and as a ripple effect, I often find that my life experiences do not put me in a position to relate. Many have significant others or are closer with their families than I am and it's tough to relate to their experiences, as my social structure and motivations are necessarily different.
These were always problems for me, but it was easier at 22 to tell myself that things would change and it wasn't worth worrying about than it is at 28. And I'm still the same shy kid who was insecure about his ability to relate to other people. Because I still will see myself as somebody being patronized, like my dad implied was the norm. I'm the kind of person who will still jump on invitations to do just about anything unless he gets the impression that the invitation was done more out of obligation than actual desire to spend time with me.
In the last month, I've deactivated my Twitter account twice, and I've taken a few additional brief hiatuses in which I would still check the app but would not actively tweet. I did so because I was in a fairly depressed state, and while some are believers in the "tweet through it" method of dealing with anxiety or depression, I try to avoid it--mainly, I worry that it will add to the unhappiness of others, particularly if somebody perceives me as having less reason to be unhappy than they do.
At the moment that I am typing this sentence, I am in a fairly good mood, but as recently as five days ago, I was barely getting out of bed. I'm not naive enough to pretend that I'm "cured" of whatever insecurities drove this in the first place. It's not that sad thoughts don't enter my brain--they do a few times a day on even the best days, but on the best days, they don't last long. I hope that I'm done with Twitter breaks, because as much as I complain about it, I really do enjoy Twitter by and large and think it is a useful tool. But if I'm not, this is probably why.
I don't know if I'll ever be truly confident. There's a reason I refuse to read comments section on things I write. There's a reason I will avoid opening Twitter on days when I write something I wasn't especially proud of. But my hope is that every day, every week, and every year, I can get a little bit closer.
