who says you can't go home?

I started this blog over a month ago after a recent trip to Texas. Maybe I didn't actually start typing it back then, but I was definitely writing it in my head. I think maybe it's better that I didn't post anything at the time. I've had time to think and reflect. And after a month, I still feel compelled to write. To be honest. Maybe, if nothing else, be honest to myself. To accept the consequences of my decision.
When I moved to New York City, I knew I would have to make sacrifices. Some were superficial, such as the selling of my car. Others were emotional, such as moving out of the first apartment I lived in alone- the place I called my home- filled with many memories. But what I had not considered was the life I would have to sacrifice.
My life was filled with many wonderful friends. On any given night I would find myself in the company of one or many of these people. It was nice. It was comfortable. From weekly dollar beer nights to random trips, these friends made life great.
So why would I leave this life filled with so many great friends? I don't know. It was probably restlessness. All I really know is that in spite of all the happiness these people provided in my life, I was not happy. So I moved to New York City. And instantly, I knew this is my life.
But is that really life? A city? Shouldn't life be about the people in our lives who make our lives better? Maybe that's one great thing about family. They aren't circumstantial. Family will always be a part of your life regardless of where you live. They have to be.
But friends... friends are a different story. Over the years, I have learned that friends, unfortunately, often are circumstantial. I no longer know the people I called friends in elementary school or middle school or high school. Even my college roommates and I have lost contact, thus ending our friendships.
This is not to say I do not have friendships remaining from those various milestones of my life. I am still best friends with the childhood neighbors I met first when I was two, then another when I was eight. Ten-plus years later, I am still great friends with the guy I met on the school bus my freshman year of high school. And I continue to share a special friendship with the girl who lived next door to me in the dorm freshman year. Then there are the handful of post-college friends who have also made it on the "friends for life" list.
So I why am I so surprised by my last trip home? Since moving to New York, anytime I went home I felt like I was welcomed home with open arms. Of course, this includes my family. But if you've met my family, you would know we are all about hugs and unconditional love (even for the liberal who moved to a Yankee state), and it would not surprise you that I can go home as if I never left. What was surprising was how easily I could slide back into my group of friends, talking with them as if I still saw them every few days. In a way, being with my friends was part of my whole idea of being "home." Because for two years, they were the family I had created for myself. (If you've ever watched Sex and the City, this will make sense.) I always loved planning my trips to make sure it would include quality time with these people. Trust me- karaoke counts as "quality time."
I first began to notice the change at Christmas/New Year's. I found myself suddenly aware that life had gone on without me. People moved on with their lives- starting new jobs, new relationships, new life chapters, new attitudes. They told jokes I did not understand. They told stories that made no sense, including names of people I did not know. People who had become part of the group, perhaps taking the space I had left. I also noticed that other people were now left out of the group.
However, it was not until this last trip home that I knew. I'm no longer part of that life. I had to sacrifice that life when I moved to New York. My email announcing my plan to return to Texas to visit only seemed to underscore the fact that I had left in the first place. What did I expect? Did I expect them to welcome me home with open arms? Probably. After all, that is what my family does. Then we spend time together, and it feels so comfortable I feel like I never really left at all.
When I saw my friends this last time, I did not feel welcomed back. Instead I felt like an outsider. I felt like I was crashing a party in which I was not a guest. Perhaps because, to some extent, this was the case. I had not been invited to the party. I had merely been informed it was happening. It was the reason I was told no one responded to me with the open arms I had hoped to find. So I went to this party, and I watched and observed. It was almost as if I was a foreigner among them. The special language they shared. The inside jokes. I was not and could not be a part of it. I made my choice. I made my sacrifice.
I still love those friends. I love what they meant to me in a time when I was unhappy with every other part of my life. I love the support they offered to me when I made my decision to move to New York. Maybe there will be a few who will continue to be one of those unique and truly special people who transcend circumstances and offer a friendship that has no limits or conditions. But I don't expect to be a part of the group again. I can't be.
I have no regrets, and I place no blame. It's just that sometimes life goes on. And I wasn't there to be a part of that life...