Rishire Writes

Growing up a black girl in the south, I’m no stranger to feelings of otherness. As an army brat, I didn’t really learn how to put down roots and create strong bonds, which made settling into my southern home where I spent ten years growing and learning quite the struggle. I wasn’t used to seeing the same people in school year after year, having gone to three schools per grade on average until 4th grade. I always fantasized about having childhood friends, but the reality fell short.

That feeling of being consistently excluded has followed me into adulthood. I truly thought I had gotten over it when the clock struck midnight on my 30th birthday this year, but boy, was I wrong. A majority of this year, I weaved a tale of being unbothered by not being invited to things, telling myself and anyone who inquired that I know where I stand when it comes to my relationship with such and such person and I’m fine with it. Just because mutual friends are invited and I’m not doesn’t mean I feel a way.

Lies! I was born feeling a way. Feeling a way is my natural state of being. I would have to be dead to not feel a way.

But that’s what I’ve been telling myself all year. I’ve been placating myself by saying that I don’t even put that much energy into these relationships, so I don’t need to care. It’s not like I invite these people to everything I do, although, truth be told, I don’t do a thing but work and try to get at least 10k steps a day. Sure, I took the day off to attend this one event but wasn’t invited to the after party. More time for me to cook and clean, things that I really need to do.

Lies, lies, lies, although, to be fair, I always need time to cook and clean. I’d much rather to be hanging out, though, so of course it stings when I’m not asked to. It stings when I’m good enough for the “everyone’s invited” event but not the exclusive, “good friends only” one. It stings when I see people I love and haven’t seen in a long time hanging out without me.

I don’t have any positive conclusions that I can make from these experiences. I don’t have a pithy wrap up that gives self-help. This is a rant, pure and simple.

This blog is called my thought bubble, after all.