Monday, August 29, 2005

I'm done feeling sorry for myself.

For now, at least.

My friends' love for me is not measured in martinis and beer, on my birthday or any day. And come to think of it, my own worth is not measured in friends. I know a lot of people, I consider many of them friends, but I seldom see any of them more than a few times a year. And that's largely because I'm the one not making an effort. It's such a cruel irony that depressives -- those of us who instinctively push away nine out of ten people who try to get close to us -- are most vulnerable to moments of "nobody-loves-me-I-guess-I'll-go-eat-worms." We truly are our own worst enemies.

Today a friend reminded me that it's not birthdays that reveal your true friends, it's crises. A few years ago I endured one that tested all my friendships, and I must admit that many of them rose above and beyond the call of duty.

It's not about a one-night bar hop; It's about the people who took time out of their busy lives day after day for months on end to hold my hand through a crushing depression, and didn't let go until I could stand up on my own again. Maybe some of them couldn't make it out for one rainy Saturday night. Big deal. They've been there when I really needed them and someday they will be there again. The pity party's over, girl. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

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