People say that being the last to leave is the worst. That being left behind, having to say goodbye after goodbye after goodbye as you watch everyone else leave, has to be more painful than if you could just be the one to pick up and go. People say that not having your closest friends here, to help you with the leaving process, must be just horrible. And yeah, I guess it is. Leaving feels like that.
But leaving feels like something else too.
Leaving feels like the coming back, miraculously, is going to be a little bit easier. Because when I crash into the "Oh God, this is really over" moment, I realized I'll be crashing into lots of former-volunteers-turned-good-friends' upheld hands.
The number of times I've been told by them in the last week to hang in there, to call them as soon as I need to, to remember they are there for me, to let them help me through this whole miserable process -- is amazing. It's incredibly scary to feel like I'm stepping off a cliff into a giant post-January-25 abyss, but it's incredibly comforting to feel like they're already standing at the bottom of that cliff with a safety net for me to fall into.
So, being one of the last to leave. Maybe not ideal. But when you're lucky enough to have the ones who went before you standing there, turned around, waiting to help when it's your turn, well, there's something kind of awesome about that.