Will you take me as I am?

I was lonely when I lived in Chicago. I had friends, and in fact, I lived with them. We'd all gone to college together and had been in the same choir. We'd ridden in the back of tour buses, losing brain cells from inhaling exhaust fumes and bus bathroom blue disinfectant. I'd say my roommates and I had a connection which passed all understanding. It was like being family with people I would have chosen, but we really didn't choose each other. We were sorted out and thrown together by God, like all families, but this time God showed Himself in the form of Weston Noble, choir master extraordinaire. So after college, I followed these four, which later became three, to Chicago.
I was adrift. At first it was wonderful to be with them, and live in a city bigger than Minneapolis, where I'd come from, and unknown to me. Everyone I became friends with, nearly everyone, drank. I don't. I mean I really don't, so that was boring at best and dangerous at worst.
I left Chicago today, nine years ago, to move to Los Angeles. I did not arrive until six days later. It's funny, but I don't remember leaving, really, not as a concrete memory. I drove my Jeep Wrangler, which was stuffed to the gills, and I remember being nervous I might be stopped by the Highway Patrol because I couldn't see out the rearview mirror. I do remember arriving in L.A., and I remember every stop along the way.
I followed much of Route 66 from Chicago to St. Louis to stay with Mary, then a very long drive to Amarillo, TX, where I had amazing Mexican food, then another long drive to Tucson to visit Juanita, Phoenix to see Aunt Cindy, Brock and Morgan, and my Aunts Bev and Beth (where my Aunt Bev hosted a beautiful Cinco de Mayo dinner for me and ten other guests, including several of my Aunt Beth's ex-girlfriends), and finally to Los Angeles. What did I think I'd find here? I kept telling people I moved here for the weather.
So, I've been thinking about that time in Chicago the last few days as this anniversary approaches. I'm in contact with all of my former roommates, almost daily now, with the advent of Facebook. We're scattered thither and yon. L.A., Germany, rural Iowa, D.C., and Boston. I miss them, each a character, distinct and dear. I really feel I could meet any one of them tomorrow for lunch and spend all day talking as if we had not parted.
But while I was living in Chicago, around the time I decided to move, I had hit an emotional rock bottom. I was unmoored, sad, depressed, and my friends had their own lives and pursuits. I had shut down, and could barely be reached. Of course the answer was obvious to me. I'd move. I remember telling the Chazan I was studying with at the time that I wanted to move to Los Angeles, that I wasn't happy in Chicago. She just said, "I hope you can find what you're looking for." Now I see it was a compassionate way of saying, "You won't find what you're looking for, but I won't judge you for looking anyway." At the time it just sounded condescending, though I knew her only to be kind and gracious.
I've written it here before, and it's true, so much of why I came here was to convert in peace. I don't mean to make too much of family meddling, because there was virtually none. It was really to give my mind peace, to make it simpler to not go home, or harder to have visitors, to give myself some breathing room, which was entirely about my own perceptions. My family has been nothing but respectful, it must be said.
But I was lonely there, in spite of my love for Cory, Aaron, Kenz and Nicky.
And at first, I was lonely here, too. But then I began to add layers over my life, doing things lonely people don't do. I had old friends here, then made new ones. Then I had a boyfriend, and soon after, a dog. Later there was another boyfriend, who became a fiance, and husband, and now there are two beautiful little girls. To say my life has changed is an understatement. I wonder what the hell I even did with myself nine years ago. Thought about me, I imagine.
A few nights ago, an old friend emailed me and, to put it simply, apologized to me for something that happened while I lived in Chicago. I didn't need him to do that, but I understand why he did it, and I graciously (I hope) accepted, offering my own admissions of wrong-doing. I think that, more than anything else, more than the anniversary of moving here, made me think about how much of my life has changed. It made me think about how I am the absolute opposite of lonely at any given time of the day and that I am exactly as happy as I am required to be. Does that make sense? I believe a little bit of discontent is good for me - it keeps me moving ahead. But I'm happy with my marriage, my children, and even my dog. I want more from my life, too, but when you stop wanting more, you're dead.
At the time, I admit, I had my feelings hurt, and wanted, more than anything, an apology, which would have done nothing to alleviate how I felt. Now I get the apology, when I no longer feel it necessary. Ain't that the way?