I have often had a hard time determining who was genuinely for me, and those who just hung around. You see, I suffer from what is known as imperfectus charctus: Lacking the ability to see people for who they really are. It is pretty interesting because I’ve always been this way, or at least used to be.
As a child, I can remember beginning many sentences with “my friend.” In particular, I can remember telling my parents,”My friend says that his dad has a helicopter.” My parents lightly chuckled, “This boy [me] is always talking about ‘his friend this’ or ‘his friend that.’ Everybody is not his friend.” That last statement has haunted me for years.
I just didn’t understand. I mean, yes, I know that people with weapons don’t mean me any good, but at least that type of harm was overwhelmingly recognizable. Not everyone (who’s there to hurt you) will have a knife, and often times those deep, intangible scars will take the longest to heal. But everyone is not my friend? That was so confusing to me. Why not? Why can’t everyone be my friend? I just didn’t get it, back then. Heck, maybe I still don’t get it.
My prerequisite for calling someone a friend was based on if we talked regularly or not. (This train of thought is dangerous because even spies talk to their enemies often, revealing secrets to the people they were loyal to.) My perspective has always been: If we talk (in class, at lunch, at recess), we were friends. As I got older, my idea of what being a friend really is became more refined.
Today, a friend to me is someone who is loyal, trustworthy and is willing to help where there’s a need. Nowadays, I have a very small legion of friends, if you will. These people are my family; rather if it’s by blood or closeness in friendship. For those who don’t fit this category, they are my friends. I am willing to help anyone as much as I can, while I can, but my family comes first. Maybe this isn’t right thinking by some standards, but I’m a living document: I am constantly being refined.
Until Next Time,
Love & Peace