Why I Left New York

Almost six months ago, I packed a suitcase and left New York City.  I literally just left. 

I needed to get away.  You know when you’re having a dreary day and you feel swallowed by a lopsided, uncomfortable haze and you decide, with incredible effort and bravery, to just go outside and look at the sky?  And then, very suddenly, that haze lifts?

That’s why I left home.  I had screwed up a relationship, I had quit my job, and New York was feeling like the inside of my head; claustrophic, distracted, and constantly going, like the line at Starbucks.

So I took a bus to Cape Cod, with one intention: to pick one goal for myself, and just do it.  This, in itself, seemed foreign and refreshing.  I chose to write an article for the Modern Love Column of the NYTimes.  I spent thirty days writing.  I submitted it, had a drink, and then just waited.  I got my rejection email during a walk home.  I remember feeling oddly rejuvenated. I was walking up a hill, panting, and I realized I was walking fast because I wanted to get home and write more. 

…Fast forward six months later, and I’m still here!  Now I know every sound of this creaky house. I have new friends and the start of a novel, and one full winter of uninterrupted writing, reading, cooking, and THINKING.  I’ve adjusted to life without internet.  I still love my quiet mornings but now I plan my weekends with someone.  Being twenty-two is like nothing else.  No, you know what it’s like?  It’s like PMSing 24/7.   It’s exhausting.

When I arrived here at the end of October, the haze lifted.  It was simple and tangible, it just lifted. Every once in awhile, this new feeling creeps over me.  It tingles slightly, like being sprayed by a mist of water, and I realize that it’s the absence of that haze, of wanting to escape.  I want to be here.  I also want to tell you things, my readers, things I think and notice everyday, simply because I think you will enjoy relating.

See you tomorrow:)

JMB  

(photo by moi)