The hardest part about growing up

Since moving away from Oklahoma in 2001, I've gradually grown into myself and continue to grow each day. I didn't really notice it until a friend of mine passed away, a friend who was the type of person you thought would live forever. His vibrancy, humor, warmth, and intelligence were admirable, and my memories of him run long and deep and a little bit worn from constant remembering. His nickname in grade school was Spud because he was unbelievably tiny. My family welcomed him into the fold when he started working part time for my father, right about the time my paternal grandfather was diagnosed with leukemia. This friend always had kind words for me and didn't spend his time making me feel stupid or gross or out-of-place. The night before my grandfather passed away, I went to a "dance" sponsered by the youth group of a local church. "Dance" meant "underage drinking" for most people. I went because I loved the loud music, the dark smoke-filled room, and that's where most of my friends were. This particular friend showed up, which was a bit of a surprise, and pulled me out into the middle of the room to dance to Hotel California, of all songs. We made a mockery of the art of dance and that moment has remained one of my fondest. When my friend died, my world turned black. Nothing made sense. How could he die? He was supposed to live forever. He was supposed to outlive his mother, a breast cancer survivor. His life was supposed to continue well into his 80s or 90s, not be cut short at 26.

On May 3, 1999, a tornado ripped through my small hometown and destroyed most of the landmarks, including the elementary school that had been around for almost 100 years. My maternal grandfather graduated from that school when it was still K-12. So many memories reduced to rubble in one dark night. I didn't really feel that loss until E died. I didn't really feel my separation from home until E died. The realizations came slow and steady: I live in California. E is gone. The town I grew up in has been scarred forever. I live in California.

There are a great many differences between the old me and the new me. My beliefs are entirely different than they were six years ago. I don't share my parents' unwavering devotion to the church and everything "Christian." I'm not sure if they're aware of that. They're amused that I'm a liberal. My father has finally stopped pointing out my "California accent." Those differences hurt because I am losing part of my relationship with my parents. I can't reason with my mother, who blames the people who stayed behind (were left behind) in New Orleans. I can't reason with my brother, who thinks the homeless and the poor are simply lazy.

But perhaps the most difficult differences for me to stomach are the ones between myself and my old friends. We have grown apart in ways I never imagined. They are married. They are parents. They hold beliefs I haven't held in years. There are times when I am so frustrated that I can't even speak or breathe. How could you think like that? How could you, of all people, be so closed off?

Part of me hates growing up. It hurts to see the ties grow thinner and weaker. It hurts to feel like I'm talking to strangers. My graduating class is celebrating its ten-year reunion this summer. I'm not attending because it holds nothing for me. It holds absolutely no appeal. What would we talk about? We ran out of things to talk about when we were still in high school.

However, part of me loves growing up. Recently, I was contacted on MySpace by someone I haven't been good friends with since 7th grade. I wasn't very nice to him and I knew it and he didn't deserve it. I apologized tonight and he appreciated it, but even before that apology, we were sending messages back and forth easily. He has come into his own and loves his life. I couldn't be happier for him. We're adults who are able to put the past hurts behind us and focus on what's most important: NOW. About a year and a half ago, I emailed an old college friend to see if the email address I found worked and if he remembered me. We have been in contact ever since. He has so many layers (like an ogre) that I never knew existed. I love him so incredibly much for so many reasons and even though sometimes I want to punch him in the face for being so typically male, I am always stupidly happy when I get an email from him.

And yet.

Growing up is so hard. Kind of like Christmas.