My parents always told me that in life, I’d only be able to count my real friends on one hand. They lied.

Somehow, I’ve been blessed with two handfuls of friends who have stuck with me through all the utter insanities of my recovery and still arrive on my doorstep, undefeated and unflinchingly optimistic about me, my potential, and my life. A few of these friends have called me “friend” since I was an early adolescent, a few have known me for the better part of a decade, and a few have only been on board for a few years, but many have seen me at my lowest and most destructive points and still have the audacity to argue that I’m worth sticking around for.

Being that I don’t enjoy the company of idiots or apathetic losers, I have always had friends for whom I keep a slight envy in their beauty, talent, wit, character, charm, intellect, or style. I have many friends that I often consider to be too rad to be hanging out with the likes of me and I’ve found myself questioning their judgment in keeping me in their social circle. This being said, I’m always amazed and floored when these people continually rush to my side, offer me forgiveness, cheer for my successes, and send me expressions of their love. For some reason, these two-handfuls of friends seek to sap none of my energy, ask for none of my possessions, fuel none of my drama, and honestly want nothing from me except my happiness and company. When I’m not sitting around feeling unworthy and scared of ruining everything, I realize that I am tremendously, unbelievably blessed.

It’s not as if I’ve sat around collecting friends during my life, either. From the time I could speak, I’ve slapped the “best friend” label on a series of close female figures in hopes of finding that one, ideal companion. I can name at least two people I called my “BFF” for every year I was in grade school, in fact. (Sadly, because these relationships were based in my inherent fear of loneliness, they crumbled and were swept away, and to this day, I only correspond with two of the many that I hoped would fill this role. I’ve had countless friends that I’ve broken ties with in the notion that their appeal wasn’t so much real as it was fabricated by my own insecurities and I spent a lot of time in my early stages of recovery sure that I wasn’t going to resonate with anyone ever… I know, waahh…) I’m not one of those people who has pictures of her best friends throughout our various growth stages scattered throughout the house, and most of my very dearest friends don’t even know the others (although the ones that do get along smashingly.)

But when I look back on my life, there are always those faces that stick out in the crowd. Even if our relationship has been based on annual visits and/or emails and phone calls, these are the people that have rushed to my side when I was sickest or sent their love and support when I announced my pregnancy. These are the people I’m not afraid to call at 2 a.m. when my mind is threatening me again and the ones I expect 2 a.m. phone calls from when they’re standing 10 feet away from David Bowie at the Tower Records in Dublin. These are the ones I would have taken out a loan for to fly them from Australia to be bridesmaids in my wedding (had we taken that route in our nuptial celebrations) and the ones who bring me tabloids and Milanos when I’m still at the hospital, agonizing over an abrupt C-section and dying to show off my new daughter. (Or text me while I’m getting an epidural with messages of hope and “I TOLD you that shit hurts!”)

Although I have family and my dear husband and my daughter around me daily, bolstering my confidence and guiding me through the nitty-gritty steps of this perpetual daily recovery, I cannot help but feel overwhelming joy at the notion that I have at least two handfuls of friends who, out of no obligation whatsoever, are choosing to continue standing right behind me.*

*You know if I’m talking about you. Thank you.