Every so often I convince myself – usually after stewing in my own company for too long and feeling that gut wrenching emptiness – that this time will be different. This time I’ll find my tribe. I’ll go to a local meetup and be swarmed by warm, caring women who like me. They’ll hang on my every word, laugh in that way women laugh in those wine adverts, and maybe, just maybe, someone will want to be my friend.
We met at a park café on a lovely summer’s day. There were nine of us, and right away, I saw how effortlessly they all fit in – exactly what I dreaded. They were all so capable. I was hoping there might be some sad, lonely women like me, desperate for a genuine friend. You can usually tell can’t you? They are the ones who shrink back a bit but smile at you hopefully.
Not this bunch. I was sitting across from the group organiser, who radiated confidence and wit…and barely looked at me. Meanwhile, I sat there, my AvPD brain clocking every unreturned glance, swallowed by silence, desperately willing myself to say something – anything – but the words wouldn’t come. I felt invisible and worthless as usual.
Even the seemingly shy woman had managed a sentence or two. I was the only mute. I managed to smile and laugh appropriately. I tried to be friendly, but they were all turning to each other to talk and nobody even noticed I was actually there.
And the longer I said nothing, the harder it became to even think of words. Because I knew – knew – that when I finally did speak, all heads would turn like I’d announced I was there to perform a live exorcism. And whatever I said would need to land like something between Oscar Wilde and a TED Talk. Except, obviously, it wouldn’t. It would land with a limp, wheezing thud. It always does.
And then there’s that familiar death of a conversation. When I open my mouth and say something – anything – and the response is a silence so wide and aching you could drive a Land Rover through it. Not even a pity laugh. Just that faint, sympathetic blink people reserve for the socially unwell.
At this point, I knew I had to leave. But I couldn’t just leave. That would require action. And if I so much as shifted in my seat, someone might ask a question, and even though that’s what I craved, four minutes of being ignored had shattered my already non existent self worth. I hadn’t arranged an emergency text alert with a friend (I don’t have any), so my only escape route was to pretend I was going to the toilet and vanish like…me, in every friendship I’ve ever tried to maintain. But even that required speaking.
Meanwhile, I was pretending – performing, really – to be so deeply engrossed in their chat. Nodding. Tilting my head at intervals like a fascinated therapist. But inside? Oh, I was seething.
Why hasn’t anyone drawn me into the conversation? Do I look that uninteresting? That boring? That unlikeable? Why do people always ignore or barely tolerate me?
Then the other voice kicked in – the judgey one with red lipstick and a megaphone.
Let’s be honest. You’re all a bit… frumpy.
I mean, for women our age, you’ve given up far too early. You dress like menopausal hobbits. One woman was wearing a fleece in July. Another had socks with sandals. And not ironically.
If any of you were ever to be my friends (a horrifying thought), I’d have to keep you ten paces behind me in public. If we were in a group selfie, I’d crop you out.
Yes, it’s shallow. Yes, it’s mean. But I don’t care.
You all looked like you moisturize with budget mayonnaise and your hobbies involve queueing.
Five minutes. That’s all it took.
Five minutes to feel invisible, inferior, judged.
Five minutes to judge you all back – ten times as hard.
Five minutes to fake a look at the flower bed, scan for eye contact, and bolt.
I was back home with my two rescue cats before any of them had even sipped their coffee.
And it’s always such a relief to get home isn’t it? Shoes off, TV and kettle on. Bum on sofa. No drama. Safe.
Never again. (At least not until the next time I convince myself I might belong somewhere.)