People I Like

“You don’t like anyone,” she says. I can’t tell whether it’s a disapproving tone or a matter-of-fact one.

“That’s not true!” I protest a little too strongly considering the lack of accusation in her voice. I start naming my friends. People I love, people I like and people I can stand. It’s not a short list, I do like many people. “It’s just your friends’ children whom I don’t like.”

She’s not hurt. She already knows. I’m not trying to blame her. It’s not her fault that her kid doesn’t fit in. I’m the weird one.

“She’s just not nice,” I continue, desperate for approval. “She looks down on people and talks behind their back.”

“It’s been ten years since you last talked to her. Is it possible that she changed?”

“People never change.” The words come out but I don’t know if I mean them. I do believe that people change. But I also believe that it requires extreme effort for that person. I know that these people are too uncaring or too stupid to change. I don’t tell her all this because I don’t know how to put it nicely. I don’t know how to say it without sounding judgmental.

The truth is I am judgmental. Especially when those people are the subject matter. I’m not willing to give them another chance. I don’t want to have anything to do with them anymore. Not ever again. I’m sure a psychologist would disapprove of such blockage of emotion, but I don’t care. I need time to heal and fifteen years hasn’t been enough.

She’s quiet as I remember the unpleasant moments of my childhood. “I don’t know why you feel so uncomfortable. You’re so much more successful than they.”

I shake my head. She doesn’t understand. I’m not even sure I understand. “It’s not about that. I don’t care if they’re successful. I want them to be successful. I’m the problem. I’m the one who has to get over it.” I’m the one who needs to stop shaking each time I see one of them. I’m the one who needs to stop turning into the ugly, weird girl they made fun of each time they greet me.

She’s quiet again. She’s not a quiet person. Neither of us is. I know she wants to say the right words. The ones that will pop me out of this self-deprecation. Be happy, she wants to order. Instead she says, “You have so much to be happy for.”

“I know. I’m happy,” I reply.

I am. Mostly.

Previously? The Unthinkable