I’ve moved a lot over the past few years. Graduate school has no respect for roots, it seems.
But moving four times in five years, including West Coast to East Coast and back again, gave me the opportunity to practice making friends. Multiple times. As an introvert who likes to make friends once and just keep them, but also, especially since the pandemic, craves in-person quality time, this has been exhausting.
I have been fortunate to largely avoid the romantic dating scene throughout my life, so I can’t truly compare, but there must be similarities. You’re a little bit lonely, someone catches your eye, your energies seem to resonate, and you think, “That person seems cool! I’d like to know them better.”
Then you start imagining all the ways that person could fuck up your life if things go wrong. Imagination being what it is, if we followed its rules we could never get to know anyone for fear of creating turmoil at work, at school, in our apartment building, at the only coffee shop in the neighborhood.
Long ago my therapist, after months of listening, observed, “You need an everyday friend. Someone you talk to regularly. Someone to share your life.” I had my husband, but the moves were hard on him too, so I worked to make friends.
I met many women, drank large amounts of coffee and wine, tried new recipes, found some fun new places to eat. I had Mexican food with Jackie, the cop who lived in the unit above us. I made shepherd’s pie for a double date dinner with Nicole, the self-proclaimed WASP from Virginia. I went to the National Aquarium with Alex, my husband’s uber-organized co-worker. There was happy hour with Megan from jiu jitsu, hiking with Angela from Nigeria, coffee with Tatiana and Jennifer, and “wives at work parties” chatting with Katie.
Navigating conversations often felt like walking across a damp street during a cold snap. Step gently, test the ground, remember that any topic might turn out to be a slippery slope. Sometimes this was boring. Learning about the upbringing and employment of a stranger is necessary for relationship development, but not inherently interesting. In a world where everyone was reeling, the question “What is your pandemic hobby?” rarely had a unique response.
But the hardest part was listening to women, over and over, describe themselves in terms of a mental health diagnosis – or several – as if it was one of the most interesting things about them. As if it both excused and explained their choices and limitations.
“I took a class on multiculturalism, but the professor was so mean, I got PTSD. So now I just can’t think about that stuff.”
“Ohhh, sorry I’m late, I have ADHD so I can’t get anywhere on time, haha!”
“I know I should talk with my boyfriend about it, but I have bad anxiety so I just can’t be alone.”
They looked at me expectantly after these confessions. After all, I was a therapist, then a psychologist in training. I felt their assumption that I, of all people, would understand, sympathize, comfort. Ideally lean in with questions and concern.
But I felt none of these generous, empathetic things when diagnoses were dropped like calling cards in a Jane Austen novel. I am happy that the world is more aware and accepting of mental health struggles, but these patterns were predictable: “I have blank (mental health diagnosis), so I can’t blank (kind/healthy activity).” I felt tired, resentful, and itchy to leave, even if the coffee had not yet been poured. It isn’t socially appropriate to give first hangout lectures on the limitations of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual and the role of insurance in forcing diagnoses to justify mental health care. It didn’t feel right to tell my potential match that the flu is also a diagnosis, but it isn’t permanent and it should encourage rehabilitation not perpetual relaxation.
So instead, when decorum allowed, I would begin the ending ritual: the manufacturing of a pause, the final shaking of a mostly empty cup, the deep inhale and sigh, the tilt of the head before sitting up straight, smiling brightly, and saying firmly, “Well, this has just been so nice. I’m so glad we finally found the time to connect…” as I reached for my bag.
Over time I got better at choosing my friend dates, and I found the companionship I craved. Women who could speak of their difficulties and also how they were challenging old thought patterns and assumptions and investing in growth. Women who held hope and love for me during times of deep struggle and heaviness in my life.
I am sure that a poll of pandemic friend finders would reveal any number of first meeting pet peeves, but that is mine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jessica Aaron is a millennial, an introvert, and a clinical psychologist. She enjoys meaningful conversations, sleeping in and drinking coffee in bed with her husband on the weekends, and learning to use power tools. She recently installed a cat door and still feels immensely proud of this.
