Can I Be Your Best Friend?
By Turi Sioson
In middle school, I was half-convinced for a while that my friends were being paid, coerced, or guilted into spending time with me.
I was shy and not very abashed at anything I did, which made everyone else put me in a box that’s labeled “weird”. I was rarely a fan of myself and no fan of any of the trends that so adorned every other kid; I sighed long at the way I looked—both physically and otherwise—next to the classmates I admired, and had a hard time approaching them with my whole self. With every shining, gleaming, wonderful person that became my friend, I could not imagine why they would want to spend time with me, and therefore I could not imagine that they were doing it willingly.
I attest this fear as part of my difficulty in becoming close with even my closest friends—the ones I spent the most time with, laughed the most with, loved the most. It is at least part of the reason I developed my imposter syndrome over friendship.
When imposter syndrome finds its way into your relationships, it denies you the ability to feel fully comfortable even in your most meaningful relationships. Yes, you can still have meaningful friendships, but they never would reach that 3 a.m.-and-still-talking level; that ugly-laughing-until-everyone-falls-over comfortable.
Instead, you feel like you're overstepping an invisible boundary every time you start to send that “wanna hang out? :)” text, like you're condemning yourself to exile just by posing the question. Every desire to hug or grab an arm while laughing feels like it is reserved for other friends—better friends—even when you know that you spend the most time with them; when you know, logically, that you mean as much to them as they mean to you.
You are perpetually frozen an arms-length away from these people, refusing to believe that you belong standing next to them, offering them comforting words, or making them laugh. You feel awkward and stiff, and for some reason cannot lift the veil from your eyes and see that, really, you are not a fraud—actually, you are really a close friend.
But I could never define “close friend” the same way the rest of the world defines it; any close friend of mine would have to endure the overly polite tone in my voice that whispered stranger—who I felt I was—rather than friend. For this exact reason, I never had what could reasonably be called a best friend. I did not feel comfortable enough around anyone to just be myself, rather than the watered-down, distant version of myself that I was showing. Which was, of course, no fault of the friends that I had—the ones I would tell others were my “best friend”, my head buzzing with the voice that told me I was a fraud in this—they were wonderful and loving and people I wanted nothing more than to be best friends with. But I felt like I was lying whenever I called them this; in my head, I was not qualified enough: not pretty enough, not nice enough; too angry, too loud, too weird. My self-esteem was low and my tendency to doubt was high—it felt nearly impossible to escape.
Which is why, maybe, that it wasn’t until this year that I finally began to break down the tendencies I had built up over nearly two decades, drawn out of this feeling of being an imposter amongst my friends. Now, I invite, plan with, and touch my friends with the kind of casual affection I had always dreamed about when I was younger; I call my closest friends “best friends” without blinking, recognizing it for the truth that it is. My arm is no longer outstretched, holding every relationship out and away from me—it is closer to being looped around an arm, or to balancing my elbow across a shoulder. I lead with myself, my true self, and feel little doubt over my worth.
But it’s not as easy as it sounds. There was no switch that turned off my imposter syndrome—I still have to physically stop myself from slipping into my isolating tendencies whenever my best friend asks, “What’s wrong?” at my downturned face; I still have to remind myself that I am truly worthy of that genuine apology from an ex who hurt me six months ago.
Though I am happier with myself, more confident, and more comfortable, there are times when I still feel as though I am a fraud in my relationships—like if I keep walking, keeping stepping, I will at some point cross that invisible boundary that I had thought I left behind, and that fear alone is sometimes enough to shift the tone in my voice to one that is kind, but cold; friendly, but distant. I have to work on it every time these thoughts creep in, and remember that, when I act on that imposter syndrome, I am reflecting my fear, not the feelings of my friends.
And it is within these times that I slow myself down, recognize myself in the mirror, in my relationships, in my cat, in my plants, and realize: I have worked for these things. I have built them, created them, and nurtured them, and I am allowed to take claim to having them, and I am worthy of the love that I gain from them. They are accomplishments, just like anything else, though of a different, more abstract kind. I am allowed to celebrate them and recognize them for what they are. Every self-reminder feels like comfort, and every recognition of my friendships is a win.
Now, I can take a breath, feel the worth under my skin, and send that text that’ll turn friends into second kin. ◆