It has been a couple years, but I still remember the first time I returned to New York City after leaving residential treatment. It was my first time stepping foot in my father’s old apartment since my sudden departure. Everything was how I left it, although I knew that my brother and others had been there since. That apartment was fraught with memories, just like the city where it stood.
That trip (read about it here), in so many ways, changed the direction of my life. I learned, partially through the eyes and perspective of those I met along the way, not to fear the city I once loved. I saw it not as my past, but my potential future. I just knew that if I were to move back, I would have to craft a new identity in the city. A blank slate.
So on Valentines Day in 2019, with my green flowered Kate Spade suitcase in hand, I jumped on a one way flight to New York. This was MUCH more premeditated than I’m making it sound. I spent countless hours with my roommate (and close friend) imagining the worst. I spoke to my therapist constantly, found an apartment on the Upper West Side, and once again packed my belongings and piled them up into a moving truck. I contacted a social worker I had worked with in treatment for a psychiatrist/therapist recommendation. If I were going to do New York again, I would do it right. I would take care of my mental health, and my sobriety.
I returned to New York with a Carrie Bradshaw type idea that New York City itself was a character in my story. The city was the love of my life. My new place on the Upper West Side overlooked the Hudson, and I stared at the boats day and night, feeling relaxed and at home. I threw myself into AA, meeting people that enlivened my life. I felt at home among these new people, new places, and new things.
I was cautious about dating, afraid to fall into a similar pattern as I had before while manic. My therapist reminded me that I was a different person now, who had experienced different things and had a new perspective. I downloaded and deleted Bumble, Tinder, and all of the other ones several times. I finally decided to keep Bumble.
Four days and a month after my return to New York, I met a man on Bumble. I messaged him, “how is your Monday going?” We met up at a diner a few hours later and the rest would become history… He would later tell me that it was my “how is your Monday going?” question that piqued his interest. To him I seemed different and down to earth. You never know the weight of your words.
A year later (and a month ago), we celebrated our anniversary with cheesecake and sushi – together in our shared apartment. Socially distanced, but not from each other.
As saccharine as that sounds, my time in New York has not been one long romantic comedy. I am still on my own independent journey. I’ve held two jobs (one in the mental health field, and one at a cute housewares boutique) and have dropped out of school once. I landed myself in the psychiatric ER twice, mostly due to the fact that I stopped taking care of my mental health. I wasn’t medication non-compliant, but I didn’t sleep enough and I let stress win.
Today I’m living the same confusing life as everyone else, trying to figure myself and the world out during this extensive quarantine. I’ve resigned myself to the idea that my 25th birthday party will be held via “zoom” – just like my AA meetings, psychiatry, nutritionist, and personal training sessions. I’ve been searching for work, and writing.
As complicated as life is now: I still want to “be a part of it…New York, New York.”