I have said this before:  I have no friends.  I have no problem saying this.  At one point I couldn’t say that.  It was too hard but not anymore.  The people that I once considered my friends have been cut off.  I don’t want to deal with their drama.  I have other things going on and pretending to have something in common was getting old. 

But that is not the only reason I cut them off.  I cut them off because they didn’t live up to my expectations.  What I mean by that is:  I tend to jump into things with both feet.  As a friend I will be there for the good and the bad.  I listen and I hear.  I am all about going out partying or staying home and holding your hand as you cry.  And people were all good with that.  I was when I needed them to be there that they disappeared.  I had friends that had no problem drinking with me, partying with me, laughing with me but they were not there to cry with me.  When things got hard I couldn’t find them.  My heartache was not a priority.  And to me that isn’t fair.  When I was younger this realization shocked me but as I get older I find that fewer and fewer people are living up to my expectations. 

There are fewer and fewer people that are willing to be there when you need them to be.  And I am OK with that.  Sure, it would be nice to have people to confide in, people that take a genuine interest in my life and want to see things get better but I expected this from the wrong people.  The people that I expected to be there for me aren’t there.  They are off at another party because that is where they want to be.  They are not sitting with me holding my hand because they have chosen to do something else more fun.  They cannot handle the darkness that is following me so they have decided to ignore it and let me deal with it on my own. 

And I can accept that 

And move on without them.

*I like History.  I spent a lot of my teenage / university years reading up on myths and stories for different eras.  This is one of the stories that I remember very clearly from that time in my life.  I think it may be Greek in origin but I am not certain.  I am also not certain of the actual names in the story so I left them out.* 

There was a father eagle that lived on the peak of a mountain made of wax with his three sons. 

One day a great fire started in the valley and the mountain started to melt.  The eagle’s children could not fly yet but because of their size he could only save one of them. 

He chose the oldest son.  He picked him and as he was flying with him over the valley of fire he asked; ‘Son, one day you will be in a situation such as this.  When the time comes will you save your child or me?’ 

The son said that he would save his father. 

The eagle dropped his son into the fire and turned around. 

Upon returning to his nest he picked up his second son.  Once again as he was flying with him over the valley of fire he asked; ‘Son, one day you will be in a situation such as this.  When the time comes will you save your child or me?’ 

The son said that he would save his father. 

The eagle dropped his son into the fire and turned around. 

Upon returning to his nest he picked up his last son.  Once again as he was flying with him over the valley of fire he asked; ‘Son, one day you will be in a situation such as this.  When the time comes will you save your child or me? 

The son said that he would have no choice but to save his child just as his father was saving him. 

That was the answer the father wanted to hear and he flew his son to safety. 

At the time I read that story, I thought that the answer was obvious.  Of course it was the parents’ responsibility to save their child.  As much as I would want to save my parents, my obligation as a parent would be to my child.  It was very black and white. 

I am older now and even though the answer still makes sense to me.  I would like to find a way to save my father too.