Response to A Friend
So a friend write me this (edited by me) email:
I'm sorry.
I know that you're leaving. I know that tonight was your shindig, and
I had every intention of going. Until I sat and I thought about it
for awhile. I really wasn't up to being around all of Cincinnati's
collected [general nastiness].
It may sound stupid, but it's still pretty damned painful to me.
I wish that I could be strong enough to say that I don't give a damn,
and that I would just walk in there and be fine...but I can't. I want
to see you before you leave, if you can forgive me for not showing.
I miss you. Really I do. You are dear to me.
There's more, but the crux of the message is there. And this is a response to that friend, as well as a general heart-rending out-pouring of emotion about me leaving this town and the collected group of personalities that I have gathered around me.
To you, friends, I say, I am trying to work out a version of friendship that does not consistently require me feeling bad so that you all feel good. I have heard more "sorry"s that the law should allow, and, at this point, I don't have any response to them. I am numb.
I know that things are very often not personal, and I don't think enough of myself to believe that it's all about me, but for once, on my leaving, I wanted it to be. I wanted to feel like the years I've spent in Cincinnati mean enough to folks that they could stop by for a quick beer, if only because they knew I would be a non-drinking, limited mobility invalid for my remaining time in town. I wanted them to recognize that I planned a going-away party (for myself, how pathetic and telling), built so my friends could come, built to not hit the surgery or the San Fran trip (slight miscalculation). I want my friends to know I didn't even want a going away party, but everyone told me I owed it to my friends to let them say goodbye.
I didn't have the heart to tell everyone that I suspected very few people would show up, that I feared very few of the folk I call "friends" would be bothered to come. And I was proven somewhat correct.
When you give yourself a party, several things come to mind. Will anyone come? Why am I planning this myself? Is it because no one else can? Or no one else will?
In my case, I realized that my mother, once again, is correct- be careful who you call friend. I have a series of acquaintances, from different lives, with varying levels of connection and communication. It's hard to bring all those folks together in one place. I tried four times- only the first was a rousing success. I feel like I should have followed my first mind and just faded into the sunset- but that felt melodramatic as well.
So it's said, and done. I won't see many people before I leave- I'm too sore and drugged up and tired to do more than connect via Facebook, and I've got family trading organs tomorrow. I'll write about this time in my life, and maybe that's the payoff- I get another life experience to write about. Sometimes, that's all I can ask for.
I love you, Cincinnati, and I am grateful for the folks who I have laughed, cried, fought with and loved. I'll miss many of you, and some of you know where to find me. Peace to you all, and really, it's ok. It's all ok.
I'm sorry.
I know that you're leaving. I know that tonight was your shindig, and
I had every intention of going. Until I sat and I thought about it
for awhile. I really wasn't up to being around all of Cincinnati's
collected [general nastiness].
It may sound stupid, but it's still pretty damned painful to me.
I wish that I could be strong enough to say that I don't give a damn,
and that I would just walk in there and be fine...but I can't. I want
to see you before you leave, if you can forgive me for not showing.
I miss you. Really I do. You are dear to me.
There's more, but the crux of the message is there. And this is a response to that friend, as well as a general heart-rending out-pouring of emotion about me leaving this town and the collected group of personalities that I have gathered around me.
To you, friends, I say, I am trying to work out a version of friendship that does not consistently require me feeling bad so that you all feel good. I have heard more "sorry"s that the law should allow, and, at this point, I don't have any response to them. I am numb.
I know that things are very often not personal, and I don't think enough of myself to believe that it's all about me, but for once, on my leaving, I wanted it to be. I wanted to feel like the years I've spent in Cincinnati mean enough to folks that they could stop by for a quick beer, if only because they knew I would be a non-drinking, limited mobility invalid for my remaining time in town. I wanted them to recognize that I planned a going-away party (for myself, how pathetic and telling), built so my friends could come, built to not hit the surgery or the San Fran trip (slight miscalculation). I want my friends to know I didn't even want a going away party, but everyone told me I owed it to my friends to let them say goodbye.
I didn't have the heart to tell everyone that I suspected very few people would show up, that I feared very few of the folk I call "friends" would be bothered to come. And I was proven somewhat correct.
When you give yourself a party, several things come to mind. Will anyone come? Why am I planning this myself? Is it because no one else can? Or no one else will?
In my case, I realized that my mother, once again, is correct- be careful who you call friend. I have a series of acquaintances, from different lives, with varying levels of connection and communication. It's hard to bring all those folks together in one place. I tried four times- only the first was a rousing success. I feel like I should have followed my first mind and just faded into the sunset- but that felt melodramatic as well.
So it's said, and done. I won't see many people before I leave- I'm too sore and drugged up and tired to do more than connect via Facebook, and I've got family trading organs tomorrow. I'll write about this time in my life, and maybe that's the payoff- I get another life experience to write about. Sometimes, that's all I can ask for.
I love you, Cincinnati, and I am grateful for the folks who I have laughed, cried, fought with and loved. I'll miss many of you, and some of you know where to find me. Peace to you all, and really, it's ok. It's all ok.