The Friends Who Aren’t There

Yesterday, I tried to call an old friend—someone who was once a big part of my life. He didn’t pick up. Later, he sent me a cryptic response, dodging a simple question, keeping things vague, distant. It felt like a brush-off, a reminder of a pattern I know too well.

And he’s not the only one. There are people in my life who don’t even bother with excuses anymore. They just don’t show up. They don’t answer, they don’t engage, they don’t care to experience life around me.

There’s a guy—let’s call him McFadgott—who’s been weaving in and out of my life for years, often lingering just enough to remind me he still exists, but never quite stepping up when it counts. When I called him recently, he was busy. Watching a movie, apparently. A movie so top-secret, it could only be revealed over email.

I didn’t press him. Because at this point, I know how this plays out. Some friendships become like old phone numbers—you dial them out of habit, but no one’s really on the other end anymore.

A Crew of Strangers Who Showed Up

Yet, a pharmaceutical company—TEVA—sent a whole team of professionals from across the country just to spend the day learning about me. A full production crew.

A makeup artist, two camera operators, a director of medical affairs and his assistant, plus other staff, all dedicated to understanding my story, my experiences, and my perspective on living with schizophrenia and using an LAI (long-acting injectable).

They wanted to see how I live. They asked real questions—the kinds of questions I rarely hear from people in my daily life. They walked with me, followed me as I showed them what’s meaningful to me. And they listened.

They listened because my story isn’t just mine—it’s the story of many people living with schizophrenia, managing a diagnosis, and navigating a system that often misunderstands us.

TEVA is going to take this footage and use it for in-house trainings, for medical conferences, for professionals who need to see and hear what it’s like beyond their textbooks and data sheets.

The Family Who Showed Up Too

And my parents? They were there.

They helped me set up, welcomed the TEVA team, entertained people while I was on camera. They showed up for me, as they always have.

They were present, and that meant something.

But outside of that? The silence is deafening.

What does it mean when strangers care more about understanding me than the people who should be there?

I don’t have a simple answer. But I do know this: when someone makes an effort to be in your life, you feel it. When someone avoids you, you feel that too.

The Excuses People Make

People love to claim they’re too busy. They don’t have time.

But time isn’t the issue—it’s priorities.

The truth is, when people want to be in your life, they make the time.

And when they don’t, you don’t hear from them—except maybe for a half-hearted excuse that doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.

And that’s where the loneliness creeps in. It’s not just about being alone—it’s about being forgotten by the people who once mattered. The ones who knew you, who shared space with you, but now seem like they’re watching from a distance—if they’re watching at all.

The people who should understand me, don’t.

The people who do understand me? They’re the ones I least expected—strangers, professionals, people invested in my voice, my story, my advocacy.

This Project Is Bigger Than Me

But this project, this experience with TEVA, is bigger than me.

TEVA isn’t making this video just to document my life for fun.

They’re using it for in-house trainings, for conferences, to educate other professionals.

This isn’t just about me telling my story—it’s about changing how people in the medical field understand schizophrenia and those who live with it.

And that means something.

Holding Onto Those Who Listen

The people who should understand me, don’t.

The people who do understand me? They’re the ones I least expected—strangers, professionals, people invested in my voice, my story, my advocacy.

Maybe that’s just how life works.

Maybe not everyone is meant to stay.

But it doesn’t make it easier to swallow.

For now, I hold onto the people who do care enough to listen. Even if they’re not the ones I originally thought would be there.

Because this matters—not just for me, but for every person living a life like mine who deserves to be understood.