My summer in NYC was spent on my bike, riding around. Drinking beers with new friends. Getting tan at the beach and while at the park with my dog. Flirting with boys and finding my way around this bulky old town. Having as much fun a broke single gal can have.
That abrubtly ended with the unraveling of my relationship with my roommate/friend/crime partner upon whose insistance I had moved to New York. The first week of September we had our third ugly, marriage-style fight that started (as the other two did) because he was being possessive of me. I put a stop to further fights by deciding to move out. He took that as a betrayal and did a couple super-shitty things as a result of hurt feelings.
I spent September and October feeling stabbed in the back.
Out of last minute necessity because everything of course went wrong, I moved to Washington Heights on W. 177 St in Manhattan. It was a dump but I could afford it, they allowed my dog and did not require a security deposit. Good thing: In September I earned about half the amount I had easily made in August. The door locks? Great, I'll take it.
I have been practically living on the train. It takes two hours for me to get to work and sometimes more than two hours to get home. Then Hurricane Sandy arrived the last week of October and rocked NYC. I am grateful that I did not experience power outages or flooding. But the transit system was not back to normal for about two weeks.
During this time my birthday came and went. I was so depressed that I canceled the few plans I was able to make post-hurricane. I barely got out of bed. I hate my job. I hate my commute. I am so fucking broke. I am so depressed that I am a thirty-three year old waitress. I have no man. I have no children. I have nothing.
In addition to all that, I am like the worst dog owner ever. I can't imagine what Spencer is thinking. At the park I was talking to a man whose dog was fifteen and still going strong. My heart actually sank at the thought of Spencer living seven more years. Then I was furious with myself for wanting Spencer to not have a long life because I am tired of taking care of him. At Thanksgiving I am taking him to my parents house for a few weeks or months so that he can receive care from nice people who are home enough to not only care for his most basic needs but also might even occasionally have the energy to play with him.
And then I got hit by a car while riding my bike...
Friends and family began urging me to move back home. I would call my mom and cry about being lonely and broke and homesick. I would stare at the pictures of my nieces and nephew on my phone.
But I feel like moving back at this point would be giving up. I moved here to try and use my degree. To see if this town is all its cracked up to be.
Trying to rally my battered spirit, I started to look for jobs. I cleaned up my resume and have been applying to a new place every few days. I am getting my bike repaired. I am moving back to Brooklyn and in with a close friend. The first week of December I will be living with someone I love and trust. I will be a twenty minute bike ride from work. The world will not actually come to an end.
I will reassess my relationship with New York when I am here a year, on May 1. It's a date.
