Living in New York City was exhilarating when I was 18. And 25. And 30.
By the time I was 47, I was done. 9/11 really fucked me up beyond my average state of nuts (as some of you who still love me know) and I tried to make it work but by the summer of 2003, I was done.
There was nothing in my "Go Bag".
I couldn't leave my apartment without fear. There wasn't a thing that made me feel good - not even performance opportunities. I had to leave or become one of those agoraphobic people who lived on delivery and lost everything because of credit card debt. I was living in my only asset and I had to let it go.
Look at that view above...my wiggling toes on my own deck with a lake in my backyard.
Look at this photo of lips pressed against my cheek and the joy of being loved by a man I never would have met if I hadn't taken the terrifying leap of faith I did in moving to a place I'd never been.
I did not do any of this without help. I asked for help.
People I knew and loved back in the city are struggling in all sorts of ways. I wish I could help them.
Sometimes I do in teeny tiny superficial ways.
I find joy in the minutiae if that's all I can accomplish.
Asking for help is the most mortifying thing a responsible person can do.
And the bravest.
