In 1994 Sarah is the coolest person I know. I am 7 years old. She's a teenager whose family rents the place next door. She talks about bands I've never heard of, and she's very good at Super Mario Bros. One day she tells me that if I wait long enough on the second level of the game, a little guy in a cloud will appear to carry me all the way to the end of the level for free. When the timer runs out and I die, Sarah laughs at me, and I laugh along because she is the coolest person I know and I like when she talks to me.
In September of 1997 I sit at a desk in the upstairs hall of my parent's home. The staircase banister is 18 inches behind my back. My sister and I are angry, confused, and crying. The virgin Mary appeared to my mother in a vision, and gave her a command to keep us safe from the corrupting influence of other children. My parents have converted the hallway into a two-student schoolroom so we can be educated in isolation. Our only peers will be the siblings they begin producing with greater rapidity, and occasionally the children of certain families who meet exacting standards of Catholic purity.
In the summer of 1999 I bump into Jake Gott's mom. Jake was the best friend I'd ever had, but he'd moved away years ago. His family has moved back to the area! His mom gives me their family's phone number. At home, I tape this precious piece of paper to the lampshade beside my bed so there's no way it could ever be accidentally lost. I called Jake a few times. After so many years our friendship was rusty and awkward, but it was still there. Then without warning his number disappeared from my room. Dad had seen it while cleaning and assumed it was garbage. This is the first time I know for certain one of my parents has lied to me. Jake Gott's family were Jehovah's Witnesses, and my parents had never liked them.
In early 2001 the Internet arrives in our house. My bottomless fascination with technology means I quickly outpace my parents' understanding of what these machines can do. There are strict rules against talking to strangers through the computer—but there are Zelda fansites full of people who care about the same things I care about. I join a forum. I feel guilty. I tell my parents what I've done. They discuss my punishment privately. When they tell me what it is they announce they aren't going to deny me access to the computer entirely. The way they say this makes it clear this was a possibility I narrowly avoided. The cruelty of that insinuation shocks me. I resolve they should know as little about my life as possible.
In the Summer of 2006 I've just completed a community college degree, and will be transferring to university in the Fall. I've been outside the homeschooling bubble for two years. There are a dozen acquaintances whose friendship I wanted, but I never manage to hang out with anyone more than once. The single exception is a man I greatly dislike. Every hour I spend with him I like him less. Yet it is so novel for someone to want my friendship that denying him is unthinkable. We get together to eat or watch movies a few times. After I move away we never speak again.
In April of 2011 the most important face-to-face relationship in my life is with the convenience store clerk I get my daily soda from. After 4 months of online dating my girlfriend tells me she's dropping out of college to move in with me. I haven't lived with another human since leaving my parent's house. I think about a conversation I'd recently had with another friend. She'd let her boyfriend move in after just a few months, and told me it had been terrible for their relationship. She warned me to never, ever make the same mistake she had. I think about everything that could go wrong, and I think about many things that can't go wrong but seem like they might anyway. I bite my tongue. I agree my girlfriend should move in. A lot of things go wrong.
We solve them.
In 2019 my online social circle is disintegrating. For the fifth time in my life it seems that every relationship I have is turning sour all at once. The repetition of this trauma doesn't make it easier. Each time it happens I'm more aware of how difficult it is to make new friends as an adult. How little time there is to develop a rich history of shared experience. I long to know others, and to be known by them.
In September of 2022 my closest friend sits beside me. She is witty, knowledgeable, and has a knack for poking at my insecurities in a way that's fun more often than it's hurtful. It is surprisingly empowering to have someone recognize the same failings in me that I do, and make light of them. We are both silent. I do not know how to tell the difference between an awkward silence and a companionable one. I couldn't think of a good way to build on the last thing she said. It was interesting, I said it was interesting, but saying something is interesting isn't a contribution. It's a conversational grunt for people too insecure to grunt. I want to tell her how awkward I feel, but I don't want to make her my therapist. I want to tell her how happy I am to spend time with her, but I don't want to be fawning. The silence is dragging on. It seems awkward. I feel certain I'm going to lose this friend like I've lost so many others. If my brain would just drift away from all the things I don't want to say, maybe it'd land on something worth saying.
In August 2002 I am bored at the Home-school Conference. I don't know why I have to be here. It's just a sales event for Saxon math books and science texts that mention Jesus. I sit in on a number of panel discussions because it's something to do. I am especially interested in one about how to respond to criticisms of homeschooling, because I like the idea of being the sort of person who wins arguments. One of the panelists brings up the 'supposed' socialization problem. "How will home-schooled kids grow up with the ability to form normal, healthy relationships?" I can feel the audience rolling their eyes around me. He answers the question as if it's obvious, with the same reasoning I've heard my own parents repeat many times: home-schooled kids get all the socialization they need from being around their siblings all day.
In September of 2022 my closest friend sits beside me. The silence is definitely a companionable one. I ought to have enjoyed it, but I'm glad I didn't try to fill it.
—Nick LS Whelan
October 9, 2022