Every time she refused my invitation, the following thoughts flashed in my head:
- "Ugh. She's so boring."
- "Excuses. Excuses again. She's being selfish."
- "I should take off my blinders and see her for what she really is - uncool."
- "Maybe it's time to admit this friendship is one-sided."
She had to write because there's a looming deadline and money must be earned. Her primary job's salary wasn't sufficient. We were both breadwinners. I should've understood that but I didn't.
Indulging my own selfishness and an undiagnosed secret dependence, I'd try to convince her to come but it didn't work. It annoyed me to take no for an answer. Little did I know, my constant invitation was oppressing her until it got to a point she'd avoid me altogether and would respond to my communication attempts with the worst reply ever - silence.
In an ideal world, we'd still be friends. Writing is our calling. But in the real world, we stopped being friends for a while now (this story being one of the few reasons). She was a writer, I was a wannabe. My failed attempts to blog ended as a dot in my personal history (my brain couldn't handle it, believe me). She wrote essays, technical articles, short stories, and could pull words unheard of to me from her vocabulary. The more she wrote and the more I didn't, the distance between us grew larger.
I strongly believe the universe has a weird and wicked sense of humor because a few years later, after our friendship naturally ended, I'd find myself walking in her shoes. My turn to decline invitations finally arrived. Getting drunk in a bar, participating in repetitive conversations in a cafe, and traveling to show off no longer had the appeal they used to. I'd rather spend my time writing because that's when I feel I have a purpose and come alive. And I wasn't exempted from the insisting and the side comments (and the judgmental thoughts for sure) too.
@@There really is bitterness in our own medicine.@@ While my intention then was good, friendship (because friends want to spend time with friends, right?), it was also selfish. I wanted her to spend time with me and my frivolous activities with other friends without truly understanding why she continued to refuse. Only until I learned my purpose and vowed a commitment to it would I gain a selfless perspective on the whats and whys of the story.
Every time I decline then insisting and sarcastic comments come my way, I feel pity. I feel pity for the oppressor for I was in his shoes before. I feel brave too, like my former friend, because sticking up for your devotion to your purpose fosters courage. I feel wicked too because I strongly believe the universe has a weird and wicked sense of humor. I pray, that someday, or hopefully soon, my oppressors find themselves the oppressed.
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