The Internal Twin Theory

One of my favorite theories about myself (see Navel Gazing, Chapter 1) is that I was nearly a twin. Physical evidence abounds: the right side of my hair flips out, the left side under; the right side of my chin is a bit longer than the left; my right eye a bit bigger. Even my right breast (if you’ll excuse me for pointing it out) is bigger than the left. As an embryo, I was clearly destined to be a twin. My egg-self started to split in two, changed its mind, and left me with two selves, me and my internal twin.

This internal twin is the opposite of me in every way. I am nice; my twin is nasty. I am loving; my twin is cold. I am happy; my twin is depressive. I recycle; my twin doesn’t. As you might guess, living with me can be difficult. I’ve been called, over the years: complicated (my mother), high-strung (ex-husband), “a rollercoaster,” (husband) and a spitfire (therapist). If I had a motto it would be, “When she was good, she was very, very good. When she was bad, she was horrid.” (See Mother Goose.)

You might think it’s kind of exciting—or at least not boring—to be me. But it’s getting old. I spend a lot of time (see Navel Gazing, Chapter 2) beating myself up for my behavior, but then I go on to make the same mistakes, over and over. F’rinstance, this winter I seem to have lost not one, but two friends. Without even trying! One friend I’d known more than 10 years; the other I had just met.

You could say I’m an acquired taste. It takes people a while to fall in love with me, to get past the shyness and weirdness to my odd, inner charm. But once they do, I reward them by giving as much as I can, just as they reward me with their amazing, inspiring selves. My soul glows after hanging out with one of my buddies.

But what seems to happen is that my twin goes around offending people when I’m not looking. I’ll call my longtime and recently estranged friend Exhibit A. A, whose own children are my age, was counseling me on the phone one day about my son’s behavior. (He didn’t want me to talk on the phone just then and was vocal in letting me know.) Natch, he’s my son—of course he’s mouthy. He’s four, smart, independent, and an only child. But his preschool teacher calls him “Golden Ian,” and his gymnastics coach says he loves a challenge and listens “most of the time.” He’s a great kid. So I defended him, saying “He’s only four,” and that type of thing. She persisted, and I couldn’t wait to get off the phone. Unbelievably, my friend seems to be dumping me over this. It’s March and we still haven’t exchanged Christmas presents, and she left me a voicemail recently, advising me not to get her a birthday gift because she’s “cutting back on presents for friends.” Ouch.

What I want to know is, why can’t we talk about it? Does she love me so little that our friendship has to end over one frustrating phone call? Is there something else I’ve done wrong? But I can’t ask her about it because of Exhibit B, which (or who) is the new friend I’ve also apparently alienated, and who (or which) seems to indicate to me that “talking it out” is not acceptable.

Right after B and I met, just a few months ago, she proposed that we collaborate on a writing project. She was a pro, I was a pro, so I was gung-ho on the idea right away. B even had an editor friend we could submit to directly, so we were both convinced the project was marketable. I did my end of the work, and for several months she convinced me she was “really cooking” on the idea, until she finally admitted she couldn’t do it. No apology.

So I got mad. Mad because she had the energy for 50 simultaneous projects of her own, and I felt like I’d been misled and disregarded. I told her (over e-mail, because my twin is confrontational, but I am a wienie) that I was disappointed as simply and honestly as I could, and she freaked out. A couple of e-mails went back and forth, where I continued to expect an apology and she continued to maintain how horribly I had injured her. We got nowhere. I tried to apologize—or at least explain—and she pretended like we were fine. But then a week later, she included me on a group e-mail. I responded with a “nice to hear from ya,” but she shot back, saying she was “too scared” to open my message and that she would “try in a few days when she didn’t feel so stressy and weak.” (She had a cold.) I haven’t heard from her since. (My twin wants to say, “Gosh, sorry, I didn’t know that you had cancer,” but I won’t let her.)

Now I feel a flutter of agitation (hope times fear) every time I check my e-mail, but nothing from B. I am hurt, but my twin is angry, so angry that her heart beats faster when we go online, and she thinks of cruel things to say to this weak, stressed-out human being whose emotional development stopped roughly at the third grade. (I’m a third grader too, but maybe that’s not a good thing to have in common). I remind my twin of the things we like about B: her humor, her creativity, her penchant for glitter.

In the end, both halves of me feel like crap. I would have done anything for A, and B really seemed like the coolest person I had met in a while. I forgave her for dissing me because I didn’t like Roller Derby, and switched to McDonald’s instead of Starbucks for our coffee dates, because French Roast gives her the jitters. I proved myself willing to compromise. But when someone erases you from memory after your first disagreement, what can you do? And as for A, aren’t we supposed to be able to disagree, sometimes, after 10 years? Isn’t friendship like marriage, where you have to work through your differences?

The timing of these two incidents has made for a rough winter. The sun is gone, the air is cold, my confidence is shot. And I am left to wonder what lesson I should have learned from all this. Is it that we can never admit to each other if we’re hurt, let down, or offended? Or is it that we should never be hurt, let down, or offended? Maybe a friendship that doesn’t have room for any of these isn’t that deep of a friendship after all. Or maybe it’s just not worth fighting for.