#6: making friends is hard
90's jeans, talking to my therapist, expectations, & Harry Potter
Hello.
My hair is fluffier on the coast, sticking out sideways from my face. Below me my feet cross over one another and the salty air slips in through the cracked window above my head.
It’s been raining non-stop, and the wind, starting in the late afternoon, shakes and rattles the front facing windows. They are the windows that face the ocean and the birds and the road that lead to the other houses down below.
I’ve been sitting in the same spot all day. I had a sandwich earlier, and now I’m drinking a fizzy drink that tastes like sunscreen. I don’t hate it, but I also don’t love it. I’ve been here since I woke up, only getting up to pour more coffee and put my empty cereal bowl in the sink. Eventually, I did shower, and after, pulled on nice sweater and pair of ‘90’s fit’ jeans. An outfit that makes feel purposeful in this spot on the couch with the rain running down from the roof and the relentless gray pressing against the horizon.
This was a birthday trip planned by my partner. The purpose of it was to do nothing. Was to read or write or puzzle or snack on food you otherwise wouldn’t snack on—not if you were just at home, doing your usual things and having your usual day. When it’s not a torrential down-pour, we walk our dog along the beach. The further we go, the less he listens to our desperate calls to come here and leave it and don’t drink the salt water! He carries on sniffing and drinking as we take large steps in the wet sand toward his compact body and slobbery face.
I just put the book Normal People back in my bag. I brought it because I knew I would finish it and I knew I would love it. And like her other books, I marveled at the way she develops characters. You’d have to try very, very hard not to get to know them intimately—so much so that you feel almost awkward and uncomfortable as you read through the first few chapters, only to be released once the book is through and you’ve realized that you’ve fallen completely in love with all of it and would actually prefer not to leave.
Yesterday, I talked to my therapist. I’ve gotten so used to doing tele-visits with her, I wonder if we’ll ever switch back? I think that I would like that, whenever it works, but for now, I look forward to seeing her every week. I like her warm, understanding smile, and the way she repeats back to me some of the important things I otherwise wouldn’t have noticed: you’re speaking differently about yourself compared to only a few months back, she says. I don’t know if I want to let myself belief her. This is you trusting yourself, she offers up. You are proving yourself wrong, and you are already doing the things that you said you couldn’t. I decide to believe her.
At the time of our call, my period had just started and I had a heating pad on my pelvic area. Halfway through our call, I warmed up to the point of sweat rolling down my arm, so I turned it off and tried to remove it without completely disrupting the session. Now when I think about it, I don’t think it really mattered anyway. I don’t think she would have cared if I said hold on, let me move this out of the way. I didn’t, but I don’t think she would have thought poorly of me if I had.
I have a quick little read by Patti Smith. Something to hold me over until we get back home and I’m once again reminded of the library that I already have. Of all the books that I don’t need to go looking for.
Last Friday night, I invited a friend over. We’ve been friends for just over a year now, or maybe longer. We are the same age, and it feels like we’re looking at life through a similar colored lens. I don’t really invite people round (really, I don’t), so after asking her if she wanted to do a movie night at mine, and her saying yes, I took very seriously my task of finding the widest variety of snacks, and making sure I had the cozy blankets out and the candles re-stocked. I wanted to go all out. I wanted to plan and organize and sink into the anticipation that I felt bubbling up in my throat.
It didn’t matter that all the fussing felt silly at first: this was a big deal. I was learning to trust myself again, and this was a friend that I felt comfortable taking that step with. So, an hour before her arrival, I organized the snacks into their respective bowls, and I lit the candles, and when she walked through the door, I smiled and laughed and we unloaded her loot and we talked about things that felt easy to talk about. Then we carried over the rest of the snacks, plopped ourselves down on the sofa, and continued to talk. I opened a present she had brought for me—a late birthday gift. I loved all of it, especially the letter. Then we put on Harry Potter, placed the snacks between us, and proceeded to chat and munch away through the whole movie. Then, as I was squinting to see her face, I noticed that the candles had all burned to nothing and our eyes were heavy and the dishes were in the sink and the pillows sat crushed from our weight on each end of the sofa.
Now I’m here with the gray skies and the sleeping dog covered in sand, thinking about this night and the way I felt and what it means to make a friend when making friends is really hard. When you’re terrified of letting them down or doing something to upset them. I have always cared a little too much about what other people think, but this is different. I know that now. We’ve moved slowly through this friendship, giving it plenty of space and absolutely no expectation. I’m so grateful for that. For all of it.
My jeans were soaked from the run-off of my rain-jacket, and the two tassels that hung at the base of the hood, were tied tightly under my chin, securing the weighted hood against my head. The part of my face that showed was a runny-nose mess, with salty, soaking bangs flailing about in front of my eyes. I kept shaking my head to move them, but they’d just fall forward again and again as I marched along the beach. It was stormy. The waves were as high as I’ve ever seen them, with wind almost visibly sending gusts past our faces, and the fog making the perfect backdrop to the constant crashing of light green waves. As I stood there, hands in my pockets and shoulders slouched, I smiled at the mess of it. It also reminded me of an oil painting—something I’d see in a museum: chaotic, dramatic, and soft.
It’s been over a month since I’ve started writing this letter to all of you. It’s been one of my favorite ways to share. Sometimes it feels like I’m not talking about anything at all, but then I remember that that’s sort of the whole point of it: to talk about what’s right in front of me. Sometimes it feels impossibly big, like I could never explain any of what’s going on, while other times, like right now, it’s digestible. It’s the beach and 90’s jeans and contemporary fiction and chocolate before bed.
Both are important.
Thank you so much for being here—talk to you soon.
Love,
Chloe
On accessing your paid subscriptions…
01. With a buttondown account, you’ll be able to access your Freshly Squeezed account at any time (just make sure that the email you use to make the account or login with, is the same as the one you used to subscribe to this newsletter)
Once logged in, go to the ‘subscriptions’ section in your menu, and select the subscription you’d like to make changes to
02. If you paid for an annual or founding recurring subscription while Freshly Squeezed was hosted on Substack, it will remain available to you for as long as you’d like to keep it active
If you would like to change or cancel it, please login to your Buttondown account to do so
*All newsletter FAQ’s can be found here