Memories of New York City.

Running around like mad on what felt like a film set having lost all the things I thought were important. My marriage obliterated, my father dead. Drunk or stoned or both. Dating numerous men whose names I’ve all forgotten. Battling thick, humid summers with a constant sheen. Getting tattoos in a frenzy. In the wintertime so depressed I ate and ate until I couldn’t feel anymore. Getting taxi’s everywhere because I was too tired, too frightened of the subway. Being baffled by the LGBT community in which I worked. Making hopeless, persistent attempts to befriend people and failing often. Going to therapy and feeling like Woody Allen until I remembered all the abuse. Turning a corner. Feeling hopeful. Knowing I didn’t belong there. Coming home.

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