On Not Saying Goodbye

A few years ago, I said goodbye to a friendship.

Her offenses had been piling up for years. As they occurred, they didn't seem bad enough to justify a confrontation, a difficult conversation. Over time, all these things added together became a lot to carry. I would often contemplate bringing them up to her, but I never did.

Then came the straw which broke the camel's back. I was visiting her in a city where she lived, that I didn't know well, and where I knew no one. We were out at a bar with two of her guy friends (she had known these guys for about three months). She decided she wasn't having a good time at the bar, so she left--without telling me. It was two or three in the morning, and I was about three or four drinks in. I panicked when I realized she was gone, assuming the worst. Eventually, I checked my cell phone, and saw a text from her, letting me know that she had gone to a different bar.

I didn't know how to get to that bar. Fortunately, her guy friends helped me find it. But I was scared and upset. I didn't know them, didn't trust them, and felt that the person that I did know and trust had abandoned me.

I felt then, and still feel, that she put me in a situation where my personal safety was in jeopardy. I'm a big believer in the buddy system. I have had close friends wind up in life-threatening situations by separating from girlfriends at bars, and going off with guys they did not know well.

I flipped out. Though my friend didn't want me to be upset at her, she made it clear that she was not sorry about what she had done. "I didn't leave you alone," she said, "I left you with my friends. And I texted you."

At that point, I realized I could not be friends with her anymore.

I said goodbye to the friendship, but I didn't actually say goodbye to her. I just stopped speaking to her. She reached out once, and told me to call her. I didn't. 

Years have gone by and I still think of her often. Sometimes in dreams, sometimes awake. I think of our many times together, and things we used to talk about. Despite the shortcomings of our friendship, there was a reason it existed. She is funny, smart and interesting person. She is strong in her likes and dislikes, many of which are far outside the mainstream. She is unapologetically herself. She will not bend herself into a pretzel to please other people. I admired these things about her. Some of them are probably also what did us in, in the end.

I don't regret the end of our friendship. Things have a breaking point. But I still find myself wondering if things could have been different. Maybe it wouldn't have blown up when it did, if only I had been more communicative about things that bothered me for years, rather than holding them inside and letting them fester. Or maybe it would have been different if she had tried to make amends, earnestly attempting to understand where I was coming from, and demonstrating that she cared about me and our friendship.

But none of this happened.

It's coming up on three years since we last spoke.

I sometimes contemplate reaching out, writing her an email. But I'm not sure what it would accomplish. I don't really want to reignite the friendship. I have nothing left to give. And beyond the issues which split us apart, which were obviously enough to do so, now the silence itself is also wedged between us.

I think of the old saying, "Let sleeping dogs lie."

My best friend suggested that the reason I still grapple with this is because I never got closure.

Maybe I don't seek closure because I avoid difficult conversations, and this would be one of them.

"Let's talk about why we don't want to be friends anymore. Tell me about everything wrong with me, and I will tell you about everything wrong with you, and then we will never talk again."

And maybe part of me is afraid that having this conversation would rekindle a friendship, that seeing and/or communicating with her would reignite all of the things that contributed to our long and involved friendship in the first place. A friendship which, though its loss haunts me, I know I am better off without.

It's out of fear, perhaps, that I don't seek closure. Fear of the process of seeking closure, and fear of the result of the seeking.

Fear can protect us from doing painful things, but sometimes we need to experience painful things to move forward to a place of greater peace.

I guess my MO to this point has been hoping that, eventually, this will just fade away. I don't grapple with it daily. And even when I do, it's not something shockingly painful. It's occasional soreness that keeps coming back, like an old injury that lets you know it's about to rain.

But so far it hasn't faded at all, in the three years I've been hoping it would. If anything, it seems even more persistent as time goes on. Maybe it's because my anger has faded in this time. Maybe it's because the initial relief of ending a badly-functioning relationship has worn off. Maybe it's because love for another human being eventually outlasts all other emotions.

I know what my choices are. I can keep hoping this will eventually resolve itself and fade away, or I can take action and hope to find some resolve or closure in that way.

If I act, I might find that it would have been better to let sleeping dogs lie.

But if I don't wake them, I will never know.

Returning to the Aftermath

I didn't really want to come back to NYC. I spent a long weekend in Albany and then Western NY, where I had a show. I visited with my college roommate. Though cold and even (already) snowy, upstate was a refreshing picture of normalcy. I easily got gas. The roads were open. The houses were intact. Thankfully.

I didn't really want to come back here even though I was very fortunate and personally had no damage or power loss. I'm mentally overwhelmed with everything that has happened here and all that needs to be done to recover. I feel personally responsible to help with things, as it seems a lot of people do, but I don't know exactly what to do yet.

The GPS took me through New Jersey, which in hindsight I can't believe I did. I saw the taped off gas stations, long lines at the ones which were open, and signs about the odd/even gas rationing rules. I saw many signs posted along the way, mostly on local businesses, referencing the hurricane, including, "SANDY YOU WITCH" and "No Power? Shower Here."

I wound up in Jersey City, where I used to live when I first moved to NYC. Many of the traffic lights were not working, and it appeared that a large portion of the buildings still had no power. I drove past a fire on the street--as in, the street appeared to be on fire.

I realized the GPS was trying to take me to the Holland Tunnel, which was closed. I stopped and asked a police officer how I could get to Brooklyn. He said the George Washington Bridge. So I went back up north, crossed the bridge, and took the FDR south to midtown. The tunnel connecting midtown Manhattan and Queens was closed as well, so I drove down to the Williamsburg Bridge, and eventually to my apartment. If you are unfamiliar with NYC geography, this is basically what I did:


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Anyway, here I am. Today and tomorrow, I'm going to volunteer my time for the election. After that, I'll start figuring out how to help with the NYC recovery efforts. Obviously, I'll be continuing to work on my album. But this city where I came on the idea it could help me, needs help right now. It's a two way street.

For My Friends

Today I'm beginning a long and possibly poorly-though-out road trip. First to Albany (Guilderland) to visit family and pick up my (now very much needed) winter clothes and a few pieces of musical equipment from my parents' house. Then to Angelica, NY via Rochester, where my college roommate lives. I wanted to book a show in the Rochester area, which led me to the venue in Angelica, via the interwebs. After it was booked, I learned that Angelica is almost two hours away from where she lives.

She's coming anyway.

Really, when I think about why I do this, why I write songs, it's always been for my friends. For myself and for my friends. Often mixed together, sometimes a bit more of one or the other. And I know that, at least for some of my friends, my music brings them joy, and my music has become part of the soundtrack of their lives. Of course, I am aspiring to a greater reach. I want to make a living from my music; I want my music to reach out beyond my personal network to those I don't know.

But if it never does, if it just exists for my friends, it is still worth it.

For my friends, for my family, for my people. My little cousins who have grown up with Stupid Noah. My mother who inspired "Just Give a Jewish Guy a Try." The people I have lived with who were sometimes my only audience and continue to be my greatest supporters.

Sometimes I struggle to understand why I am doing this, investing my time and resources in something that doesn't pay the bills yet, and possibly never will.

But when I think of my friends, I never doubt the value of what I am doing, and instead become overwhelmed with gratitude for their love and support, which lifts me in every imaginable way.