Dear Vix,
I’ve come to the realisation that I value my friends more than they value me.
It struck me when they started getting married. People I consider to be so close they are practically family not only chose others to be their bridesmaids – but one didn’t even invite me to her wedding.
She said it was just family at the ceremony and that it was really intimate, but I later found out there were other friends in attendance, and it was a bigger affair than she first led me to believe.
To me, it’s nothing to do with wearing a nice dress or even what it outwardly says to other people about our relationships – it’s the really weighty and terrifying idea that I don’t matter to them. At all.
I already feel isolated because I am the last remaining single one and don’t have kids. Our conversations have changed, I mould around their plans and responsibilities – and I am the glue, constantly bringing everyone together, desperately trying to cling onto the threads of our group. If I don’t make the effort, nobody will.
And yet, these very concrete decisions to exclude me (and to constantly talk about their children when we do get together, without even asking how I am) make me feel like my loyalty and kindness are taken for granted.
I always try to be the friend I want to have myself – but should I just throw in the towel and give less? It seems to work for everyone else…
Never the Bride – or the Bridesmaid
Dear Never the Bride,
I feel for you. I’ve often noticed that in friendship groups – particularly long-standing ones which span many years, even decades – the roles we “fit” into early on tend to last. There’s not much movement within established social groupings, even when the people within them do change. And it can sometimes feel like a burden.
If you’re the one who’s always geeing everybody up: suggesting dates to meet, booking restaurants or starting one of those dreaded “polls” on WhatsApp where you’re fighting against everybody’s diaries, simply to get a date in, some six months in the future – only to witness one friend flake, another transparently decide she got a better offer and someone else realise they’ve accidentally double-booked – then it can be tempting to give up trying to get everyone together to begin with. You’re doing all the hard work, why aren’t they? And why can’t someone else take over the unpaid job of “social organiser”, for a change?
The problem with this logic is that, while it’s entirely right and justified for you to feel aggrieved, the most obvious reaction – to just stop making any effort, hoping your friends will notice or get the memo and then do the hard work of self-reflection to realise they’ve been taking advantage of your energy and social battery all this time – isn’t likely to work, I’m afraid. I’ve seen it, time and time again… when we get fed up of putting ourselves out there and suddenly stop, without warning, the most likely outcome is that our friends will feel affronted because they haven’t heard from you. Or (ironically), they’ll wonder why you aren’t making any effort anymore. I know. It’s unfair. But it’s usually what happens.
Unless – and this takes bravery – you do something we don’t often do, for fear of sparking conflict: tell them how you are feeling.
I think this would be particularly pertinent to you when talking about how hurt you were not to be invited to your friend’s wedding. That’s such an obvious hurt that I have to admit I’m shocked your friend wasn’t brave enough to raise it with you herself. But, crucially, you’re going to need to go in soft. Using “you did this” accusatory statements always backfire – no matter how justified. It puts the person you’re dealing with on the defensive; they’ll want to attack back.
I would always suggest using “I feel” statements – and centring the impact on you (because nobody can argue with how you feel!) “I felt really hurt when I realised you hadn’t invited me to your wedding, but other friends were there,” would be a totally reasonable thing to present her with. Resist the temptation to expand – I’d want to place the information about your feelings in front of her and see how she handled it.
The constant mentioning (and prioritising) of people’s kids is slightly trickier to handle, as I know (and I know you know) that your friends are always going to put their children first. But it shouldn’t mean they can’t set aside one evening, child-free, every couple of months. And it definitely shouldn’t mean that when they’re not with their kid, that’s all they talk about – at the expense of finding out how you are.
Again, I would try to frame it positively and from a place of introspection, as that’s likely to get the most sympathetic result. If you’re happy to show some vulnerability, you could say something like: “I love hearing about your kids, but it can feel a bit overwhelming when we’re together, because I feel I don’t have anything to say. Can we try talking about us all as adults for the evening?”
Good luck. I hope it works – though I’m also reminded that some friends only “fit” into certain seasons of your life. It may be that, sadly, you’ve outgrown each other. If you have, that’s not necessarily a terrible thing; it just means that it’s time to let go of some of your old bonds and focus on making new ones – with people who are more similar to you. I wrote about some tips for that here.
The Independent’s agony aunt Victoria Richards is here to help. Email dearvix@independent.co.uk for advice on love, work, family and relationships