I was lamenting to my husband tonight about a disappearing friend.
He said that I should put that friend into a compartment where you keep friends like that, the kind that come and go in your life.
I don’t have that compartment.
So, instead, I torture myself by trying to figure out what I might have done. I blame myself for some imagined slight or insult or poor behavior. The only thing is, I can’t understand what I could have done. I still decide secretly that I am a horrible person and a failure at life. Because I am dramatic like that.
I’m tempted to contact the missing friend but that would end badly–at least it does in my overactive imagination.
I miss my friend.
I hope I didn’t do anything to hurt my friend.
Why does life seem so much like fourth grade sometimes?