Happier

Lately, I’ve been thinking about something that seems to have been eating away at me for a while. It’s this feeling of being too much.

My friends tell me,

You’re not high maintenance.

And I see it in their eyes that they mean it. Why was I so convinced otherwise? Well, it’s simple really. You left me with emotional baggage.

You’re high maintenance.

Those words weren’t quite spoken, but you may as well have said it. That’s what I heard when you said,

It’s just too much for me.

I heard you.

I remember the grief of incomprehensible loneliness when I was with you. I remember the constant thoughts of unhappiness when suppressing selfishness, because what I wanted—to spend time with your friends, to have those small moments you see in the movies, for you to talk to me—none of it mattered. I remember being the one to put in all the effort, only to receive nothing in return.

And you still wanted to be friends. Every time there was something I was proud of doing, like a big event I hosted or a small thing I created that was featured, you were never there. How could you be my friend if you didn’t show support when you were more than that? I wasn’t about to be an asset used to virtue signal to everyone else.

So what exactly was too much about me? The fact that I wanted to know how your day went or even the fact that I wanted to spend time with your friends? I thought I was asking for too much, but really I was asking for the bare minimum. Was it my strength or the fact that I could speak up that was too much? I’d understand if it was because you seemed to lack a backbone or an opinion of any kind.

And to think back to the worst couple of months of my life—the grief of losing you and the pain of seeing you so lost… what was I thinking?

You cried poor but then spent your money on frivolous things you didn’t need.

You felt like you didn’t belong at church, but made no effort on your part and proceeded to avoid everyone who reached out to you.

You were a bottomless barrel of issues and I was a fool to waste my time trying to help you when you clearly didn’t want it.

There was always an excuse for everything you did. I made excuses for you. You were still a child. Maybe you’re still a child. Yet, even in my anger and distress, I can’t help but be concerned and I wonder about how you’ve been. However, that’s none of my business.

And to let all this go—I’m finally able to say,

I’m happier now.