I'll always remember my 20th birthday party, though the fine details had escaped my mind by the next morning. I remember its existence vividly because it was ridiculously well-attended, and may even qualify as a rager. At the time, I was heavily involved in the music scene, and I was a photographer for what was the largest party photography site on the internet. I was invited to a red carpet event or two that year, and I hung out with people who were in my favorite bands as a young teenager, and my nightly mission was to be having the most fun possible. My birthday party was at my then-best friend's dad's house, which was a ranch-style mansion. There was an enormous swimming pool with a cabana, and a huge courtyard. I have a photograph of myself at the time wearing a shirt that I had borrowed, still soaking wet from the pool: "HE WHO DIES WITH THE MOST TOYS WINS." My best friend and I would reminisce later that at least two grown men had left that party crying, and someone, in a case of mistaken identity, had their unreasonably expensive car keyed. Every single one of my exes showed up (none of whom were the crying men), even the ones that I hadn't seen since a messy breakup. See, back then, you didn't send out invites on Facebook; you sent out invites on MySpace bulletins, and it was a crap shoot whether or not your "friends" decided that the invitation was intended for them.

To explain why this was so exhilarating to me at the time, I have to go back to my earlier years. I was bullied horrendously as a child, and it didn't stop until I graduated high school. I was never cool. I was that kid that only got invited to parties if the host's mom made them invite everyone in the grade. I resorted to punk rock and dyeing my hair and wearing all black because I couldn't have fit in if I tried, so I might as well make it look intentional. I kept to myself and read books alone on the baseball field during lunch. And then something unexpected happened once I got into college: people wanted to be my friend. I could somehow hold a conversation with strangers and be charming through it, and if not charming, then awkward in a way that people thought was endearing. I wasn't just invited to parties; I was invited to the parties.

Over a decade later, I look back at that birthday party, and I come to a glaringly obvious realization: only a few of the hundred or so people in attendance at that party are still in my life, and I don't really miss the ones who aren't, for the most part. It wasn't a happy year for me; it was emotionally destabilizing, dramatic, and exhausting. I wouldn't trade having experienced that year for anything, but I also wouldn't want to relive it.

A couple of years ago, I had an epiphany that was simultaneously depressing and liberating. I realized that some of the people who I counted as my best friends, who had been with me the longest, put very little effort into our relationship. With some regularity, I would text them on Friday nights--Hey! What are you up to this weekend?--and I'd get back either silence, or sometimes, they'd let me know they were busy, or we'd make plans and they'd completely flake at the last possible moment. I could guarantee that none of them would pick up if I actually called (you know, the old fashioned way, in which you use your vocal chords to communicate). I'd run into them at shows and at bars and it would be like no time had passed, but when it came down to actually relying on them for anything, they'd be nowhere to be found. These friendships were entirely on their terms, and their terms were to hang out with me at their occasional convenience. Some of them were people I had picked up and dropped off at the airport, or helped move, or had done various small and large favors with no expectation that anything would be returned other than the friendships I believed we had for years.

So I made a promise to myself. I gave the people who fell into that category three more tries before I'd stop. If after three tries that any attempts to contact them or hang out with them failed, I would stop trying and let them come to me. If they never did, then I would let it go. And next time I saw them, I would be honest with them about it.

I was disappointed to find out that without exception, those friends never texted and never called. At first, my feelings were hurt. I felt let down, and unappreciated, and unloved. They didn't even realize I was gone; that was how little I had meant to them all along. They stopped inviting me to their parties, and I sadly wondered whether or not anyone noticed that I wasn't in attendance. As I promised to myself, I was honest with them next time I saw them. Not in a mean or confrontational way--just, you know, honest. Maybe it would be good for them too; maybe I wasn't the only friend they'd lost and nobody had ever told them.

Every time, the same response: "Oh my god, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you felt that way! I miss you and love you too. Let's hang out this weekend!" Every time, those texts and phone calls never came, and we never hung out that weekend.

I'm not sad anymore about the friends I've lost because of that lack of reciprocation of effort. The friendships I have today have flourished because I have the space to nurture them, and they are closer and more mutually fulfilling than ever. It's so much better to have five close friends who you know will pick up the phone when it matters than a hundred who forget about you as soon as the (proverbial) party is over. As my birthday is coming up this year, I don't expect more than 15 people to show up, including my family and the people who live in my apartment complex, and that's fine with me.

This post was (heavily) inspired by a post by Hive account@lymepoet, entitled Well Worth your time or not?