I lived in one city for the first twenty-three years of my life. During all of that time, I made only one friend about whom I cared enough to make an effort to remain in contact. Think about that for a moment: think about just how many hundreds of people I would have met during those decades, and just how little almost all of them would have had to mean to me. Naturally, this drew me to the conclusion, to which I’m sure you would agree, that I was not a very sociable person.
Therefore, when I moved to a different city for my grad school, I just assumed that my social interactions would continue to buzz by in a similar fashion; that once my time was up (as it now is), I could just up and leave once again with a minimum of fuss or regret.
How wrong I proved to be.
Perhaps it was in response to the absolute loneliness of an utterly unfamiliar city, or perhaps it was the sort of iron-bound camaraderie that only war or grad school can forge, or perhaps it was the fact that my change in gender expression allowed me to finally behave honestly, but whatever the cause, I find myself really liking the people here, and not wanting to leave them. Case in point, when I left my home city, I only managed to get four people to show-up to a lackluster farewell party; when I celebrated my Master’s Thesis victory last night, the attendees numbered in the dozens.
And this is a problem because, while I have not yet decided on a plan for the future, the overwhelming likelihood is that I will have to leave this place soon, either for work or for the lack of it. I don’t want to go; not without knowing when or if I will be able to see my friends again.
Damn it, I never expected to like them!