I have a list of blog posts which I’ve started, and then lost interest in and not finished. If that, my dear friends, isn’t the best analogy for who I am as a person I don’t know what is.

I have one about anger, another one about values and the importance of understanding them, one on the Bourke St incident last January. Many others too, but I hesitate, I get stuck on a word or I suddenly realise I had no real point.

I stopped updating for a few reasons. I started a new job, I started a new course that would help me write the first draft of a book, I started another new job (yeah that’s a whole thing), prioritising the hour it takes to write a blog post seemed unimportant, almost like a chore, and the last thing I wanted this to be is another obligation.

So why now? No idea. Sometimes I just want to write. Life has normalised, as normal as my life becomes, at any rate, the proverbial dust has settled, and I’m now viewing my life with a fresh set of eyes.  Or, well, the same eyes, that have seen enough shit to realise that there is no such thing as normal.

So, the question that presents itself is, is this it? Is this what the rest of my life has become, working 45+ hours per week, writing a book, reading with Mia, watching TV shows, playing video games, catching up with friends, and let’s not forget sleeping.

Wants. Needs. Obligations. Co-dependent in some way. Trying to find the harmony in it all. Bettering myself, being there for my friends, remaining sane, and the need to work so I can support my frivolous ways.

After everything happened with my Uncle, after we started looking after Mia, I had to pivot. I had to reassess what was important, what I was giving my time to, what would take a hit.  You’ll be surprised to know that I was able to justify a lot of the things people would probably think I shouldn’t have. I like TV, I like video games, I like writing, they help me be me.

They help me balance out my craziness. I need these outlets to allow me to continue functioning without having some form of breakdown.

I’m sure you guess what took a hit though… Come on guys, it’s in the title… Friends.

I have a lot of friends, of all kinds. Close friends, best friends, regular friends, friends as big as your head. I haven’t always been the best friend to have. I’ve always had my mates’ back, but I can admit, in my mid 30s wisdom, that I probably wasn’t as just and noble as I think. I could be mean, I could be a bully. I could be an outright cunt.

There were reasons, of course, there always are, but as I aged, after having friends pass away, I over-corrected. I would go out of my way for my friends, constantly, even at my own disadvantage.

I call this my self-imposed need to be the hero. Which is as flawed and fucked up as it sounds. I’d be the linchpin, I’d go out of my way to visit, plan things to do, keep in touch, make sure my friends were all ok. I set the expectation. That was who I was.

I love my friends. I still have some friends dating back to high school, hell, even primary school. People change though, they evolve, mature (well, some do), their lives take them in different directions. That’s OK though, isn’t it? I’m not the person I was in high school, 10 years ago, hell, even 1 year ago.

I’ve changed, and yeah, sometimes that change has been forced upon me, an external factor coming in and saying ‘hey fuckhead, time to change shit up’, I could dwell on it. I could be the person other people need me to be, to make them feel better, to make their lives easier.

What does that leave for me though? Other people’s problems, other people’s obligations and no time to do the things I need to do, the things I love.

The biggest disservice I can do to some of the great memories I have is trying to replicate them. I’m not that person anymore.

Mia is in grade 2 now, she’s starting to form her own personality, she also really likes replicating me. The last thing I want her to be is a person who is content in misery, content to tie herself to people who wouldn’t tie themselves to her. Who wouldn’t have her back.

Friendship isn’t daily phone calls, weekly catch ups. It isn’t to me at any rate. It isn’t that awful sinking feeling in my stomach. It isn’t an obligation.

It’s trust. It’s laughter. It’s stories. It’s fighting. It’s tears. It’s random 3am text messages. It’s the best part of me, and it is never a chore. It’s a two-way street, it’s people who go out of their way for me when I need them to, it’s calling me a cunt for cancelling plans, but understanding anyway. It’s realising that underneath everything I project, I still make mistakes, I still care. That I’m not as strong as I let on.

My life is too short to be weighed down by an obligation to someone you used to be.