Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

Have you ever thought, this is too good to be true? I am almost certain we all have, and I am definitely sure that thing—whatever it was—turned out to be too good to be true. I know it sounds cynical, but if you think about it without trying to prove me wrong, you'll see this happens with anything we get too excited about too soon.

You find a friend—these days, mostly online—and you think: Where has this person been? I am so glad to have found her. I have so many things to share with her. You're imagining 10 years from now, reminiscing about the beginning of your friendship, and you go all in. When you're younger, this is a sunshine-and-puppies situation. You don't even entertain the idea that something might go wrong, and that is why you never, ever forget the first time you experience a betrayal from a friend—the one that truly broke your heart.

I experienced mine when I was 21. By that time, M and I had been friends for almost 10 years, half of those practically inseparable. She was the most precious person in my life, after my grandma, of course. I was imagining us growing old together, having kids at the same time, who would then grow old together. I honestly couldn't even imagine my life without her. And boy, was I wrong.

Years and years have passed, but even if I let myself really go deep and remember the events, it still hurts. After what she did to me, I caught this other shoe virus. Morvarid circa the 1990s was all about trust, enjoying other people's company, and all that shit. When those naive years passed, every situation became a ticking bomb. Every person who entered my life became a potential threat to my sanity, and the ones who made it past all the crazy fears (thank God for those few) aren't even a handful. You know why? Because people will keep proving you right when you expect the worst from them.

All my adult life, I have been fighting this fear. I have been trying to suppress that voice in my head that says, Something is not right here; be careful, and instead try to enjoy my relationships, however fleeting they may be. But I have never experienced that sense of letting go—that calm that comes when you don't know what fear is. That sweet, sweet taste of possibilities.

I try to console myself by thinking I am wiser now. I cherish all the experiences and tell myself, Fewer things can hurt you now. And all of that is true. But sometimes I really miss that feeling of being able to fully trust someone, being able to talk without filters, and stopping the countdown until that other goddamn shoe finally drops—and that nasty voice in my head gets to say, Told you so, one more time.

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