There are a lot of things my Friends did that I still find myself being confused by. Things that just simply do not make sense in the context of our persistent dynamic. Things that seemingly served no purpose – until I sit with them long enough to finally be able to see it. This has taken me multiple years to get to, but better late than never, I guess.

But even then, I can’t help but wonder why anybody would go to such lengths for those purposes. How any of it benefited them personally is still a mystery to me. But maybe that is something I will never be able to understand, because our ways of thinking are so fundamentally different.

There were a few times my Friends invited me over. This happened with multiple girls over the span of several years, during our time in elementary school. They would come up to me, smile at me, look at me in the eye. Then they’d say, “Would you like to come hang out with me after school?”

“After school” was right then, in that moment. The bell was ringing, everyone in class was packing up their things and heading toward the hallways. I couldn’t say no at that point. And besides, she was looking at me with sincerity in her eyes, maybe there was even a smile on her lips. I wouldn’t know what kind of a smile, though.

She was the IT Girl of the class. Everyone wanted to be her, wanted to be with her. And here she was, inviting me to come hang out with her in her home. I had to see what that was like, how big her house truly was, how rich her family were. So I nodded and smiled faintly. She narrowed her vacant eyes and nudged me toward the corridors.

Well, how big was her house? Bigger than I hadn’t even been able to imagine. I was the Kid of two financially struggling parents; living full-time with my mom who was working as a student counsellor, a profession that requires several postgraduate degrees but pays like absolute fucking shit; and regularly visiting my dad who was a professor at the local university of applied sciences, a profession with a good salary that didn’t leave dad with much because he was as deep in his alcoholism as he was in his debt. Suffice to say, I grew up poor, living in tiny apartments, one out of which didn’t even have a room for me. So when I stepped in front of the beautiful 1940’s detached house that we in Finnish architecture call “frontline soldier houses”, I was awestruck.

We stepped in to the terrace. Terrace. My Friend asked me to leave my shoes there and then come in. I did as I was told. I took a look around myself: it was a beautiful home, two floors, and a basement. My Friend’s mom was home already for some reason. They had a dog, which I was scared of. It was jumping up against my legs. My Friend’s mom peeked out of the kitchen. I remember her smiling at me. She was a beautiful young mother, and I wondered how young she must have been when her daughter was born. I couldn’t understand how that could have even been possible. I thought about the lines my own mom had around her eyes.

“Hi there, sweetie! Are you a friend of hers?” my Friend’s mom greeted me. I remember nodding and not saying much. My Friend said something to her mom, who then asked me another question.

“What’s your favorite drink, dear?” I told her I loved coffee.

“Coffee! Are you sure?” I nodded once more. I had gotten used to the concern in every adult’s voice by then. Yes, I liked coffee when I was 10 years old. Why people treated it as if I was drinking alcohol was beyond me. Out of all the drinks my dad could have taught me to drink, I think coffee was the best option.

My Friend’s mom told us she would bring us the drinks upstairs when she was ready. We climbed the stairs and headed to my Friend’s room. She closed the door behind us and plopped down on her plush bed. I stood in the middle of the room awkwardly, just looking around. I thought about my own bed, the one I had had since I was three years old. I felt a pit in my stomach. Why am I here?

A knock on the door. It was the mom. She had a glass of soda for my Friend, and a cup of coffee for me, and some cookies on a plate. My Friend took everything from her, didn’t thank her, but slammed the door shut.

“Here”, she said bluntly while giving me the coffee. We sat down on the floor, on top of a fluffy rug. It was soft to the touch. I was petting it like a kitty. I thought about my furbaby back home.

I thanked my Friend for inviting me to stay at her place for a while. I also told her how sweet her mom was. She didn’t say much to what I said, but just sat in front of me, staring. I felt unsafe. The warmth of the coffee going down my throat comforted me a little.

I don’t remember much of what we did or talked about after that. I might have showed my Friend some of my drawings, we might have worked on some homework together, I’m not sure. But what I do remember is her piercing eyes staring at me seemingly without blinking. As the terror started creeping up my spine, I felt my welcome expire and left without saying much to her. The mom was still in the kitchen, and she saw me come downstairs.

“You’re leaving already?” I nodded silently. “Oh, that’s a shame. Thank you for coming, though, I’m sure my daughter was glad to have you here. Please come over again, she doesn’t usually ask her friends to come over.”

Very often when I tell these stories to medical professionals or people I know personally I get asked why I would willingly put myself in this situation: why I would ever even agree to go spend time with the biggest abuser of the class when she asked me to. And for the longest time, I was not able to provide any kind of an answer to that question; I was baffled by my own actions, too. But I’m certain I have finally arrived to the conclusive response.

You don’t have to look farther than the caring mother in the kitchen.

Having my morning coffee,

ichigonya

The Invite

Use It Against Me

Life Update: Finding My Bro