I’m Not a Good Friend

I’ve known this for a long time, and if you asked me about it, I would tell you: I am not a good friend.

A good friend remembers your birthday, the name of your partner, what you do for work. A good friend calls to check in with you when they haven’t seen you in a while. A good friend comes to you after a fight and tries to make up, tries to understand where you’re coming from, and repair the relationship.

I am not a good friend.

For most of my life, I blamed it on the instability of my childhood. I frequently moved homes and schools, and so I learned early not to get too attached to people. That people, like things or places, could be replaced by similar things or places. That memories, when held onto too tightly, die of suffocation. So I learned to let go. I made the promise to come back and see them in the summer, but I never did. And if I did, I never paid them attention. I had already moved on.

I struggled with this into adulthood. As a person in my twenties, I wanted so badly to have a friend group. I wanted to have people to call when I wanted to do things, and someone to rely on when I needed a listening ear. But I struggled with the maintenance. Friendships, like any relationship, require upkeep and regular maintenance. It's not right to pop in and out of someone's life only when you remember they exist. This was something someone had to tell me. I had to be told that friends don’t yell at each other or ignore each other. I relied on the images of friendship that I had seen on TV and movies like Clueless to model my idea of what it was supposed to be. Was I more of a Cher or a Dionne in this relationship? I molded my personality based on who I was around, adjusted my clothes, my speech, my style to fit in. I was never quite sure of who I was, but I could be anyone—if I wanted to be them.

If I wanted to be a cool queer kid, I slicked my hair back and wore bandanas on my wrists and black skinny jeans and made out with girls at the back of emo shows. If I wanted to be with the normal white kids from my part-time job, I wore my hair down and put on a summer dress and sandals. If I wanted to be with the nerdy kids from class, I threw on a graphic tee I got from the mall and my fake black-frame glasses. Each of these was me, but boosted, exaggerated, and the other “me’s” were minimized for the time being.

My friendships in my twenties never lasted. They never survived a hint of conflict. Every time a single bit of tension arose in our relationship, I was out. I blamed it on how I was raised. I wasn’t used to resolving conflict. If you fought in my family, you went to your room until you got over it, and then maybe got taken out to Burger King for a silent meal of chicken nuggets in the car. There were no talks about what hurt or how to fix it, so the wounds lingered and rotted and festered. I drove away most of my friends from that time. People I miss and think of often. But it wouldn’t have been hard to send them a text, a Facebook message, asking to reconnect, to hang out—that’s what a good friend would do.

In my thirties, I made a resolution to be a better friend. When I moved across the country, I said that I was going to put the matches away and leave the bridges whole. I wanted connection, but mostly, I wanted jobs. I realized that in the entertainment industry, the old adage is true. I networked and glad-handed and connected on Instagram. But often times I forgot names, faces, or even titles. I promised lunches, coffees, hangs, and never came through. I went through multiple friend groups—circles of friends that orbited around one particular person (never me) who was organized, proactive, and charming—a good friend. This person remembered to invite everyone out, made you feel welcome, organized the outings, and had a preternatural ability to resolve tensions in the group. This person was the star in the middle of our gravitational pull, and once they moved or got married, the whole galaxy collapsed.

In 2024, I was diagnosed with autism. For the first time in my life, things made sense. I won’t say the diagnosis made me happy or gave me relief—it didn’t. I went through all the stages of grief. I understood that I could never be “fixed” or “cured,” and that the decades I spent struggling with every facet of my life were unnecessary if someone had just noticed me. But it was all there. The days I spent isolated away from other people to “recharge,” the miscommunications, the misinterpretation of social cues, and the way I would just stop speaking if I felt overwhelmed or frustrated. How I would rage when people didn’t play by the “rules” of a game or changed the plans of an outing spontaneously. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. Everyone just thought I was a bitch, so that worked for me. I was a bitch. A crazy bitch who sometimes thinks the lights are too loud, and the tag inside her shirt is cutting her, and she can’t eat because the wrong foods are touching each other. A crazy bitch is not a good friend.

I learned about a concept called “masking,” where people with autism imitate the people around them in order to appear more “normal”—something I did all throughout my twenties. Something I called “turning on.” When I need to, I can “turn on,” and that’s when I can pretend to be a normal person. But I can’t stay on for long, or else something bad will happen. I masked so much that sometimes I had no idea when I had turned on and when I had turned off. Sometimes I turned on before I even meant to, and before I knew it, I was in the middle of a full-blown pantomime. I hated that version of me, but I hated the authentic version of me too. I hated all of me’s.

Recently, I’ve been “unmasking” more. Allowing myself to vocalize my needs more, wear the dumb headphones, and do the stims. I don’t force myself to make eye contact anymore [only liars can’t look people in the eye]. I also explain to people, “You may feel this is rude, but I need thorough explanations in order to understand things. I’m not judging you or testing you—I’m just trying my best to understand.” This has led to fewer misinterpretations. I also understand now that what I wanted half the time was someone to do things with in silence. We don’t have to talk; we can just be in our own worlds, and that is enough for me. Being in the same space is enough for me. Or a meme every once in a while. A funny TikTok. That’s my idea of friendship.

I am not a good friend, according to neurotypical society. I just want to talk to my friends about my latest cinematic hyperfixation or send them 20 memes in a day. I will forget to ask you how your day was, but I’m getting better at that. I’m learning now that everything wasn’t just from being a bitch. I’m learning more social cues and understanding more ways to vocalize my needs and limitations. I can never be fixed. And I’ll never be a good friend. But inside of me is a person trying to connect, and I’m trying, and I’ll keep trying. Until maybe one day I will feel like someone thinks I’m a better friend.