I’ve never been very good at letting go.
Five and some odd years ago, I put everything in storage and moved across the country, to continue my love affair with New York City.
I lived out of a suitcase for too long. I sublet an overly pink princess room in East Harlem and taught my roommate’s cat to play fetch. I rented a couch in my now-divorced friends’ constantly-dark living room. I lived on the road in a tour bus and hotel rooms.
And then, finally, I got an apartment. An amazing one. An affordable one.
“You can’t ever let this go!” they said.
I hired movers and got scammed out of $850.00. I hired movers again and this time, they were honest.
And, on March 16, 2014, my earthly belongings and I were firmly rooted again. I set up a comfortable home in my beloved New York City. I carefully designed and painted my walls. I bought candles, accent furniture, plush towels and really, really, really good pillows. I had my own bed to sleep in again, despite the steady stream of obnoxious noise on 5th Avenue.
I pounded the pavement, determined to pick up where I left off after my divorce. I had almost made it to Broadway in 2009. Surely there was no way I would fail this time!
But somewhere along the way, my dreams changed. Broadway no longer lures or intoxicates me. Besides the constant rejection, I don’t even like musicals anymore. I lost interest in playing someone else on stage.
I just want to be me.
Things at home became extremely tense when my seemingly perfect, married roommates split. I had lived through the hell of my own divorce; now I was living right in the middle of another one. After a while, however, things settled down. I was less trust and a close friend, but I still had my apartment. I still had my stuff. I still had New York City.
Oh, New York City. How I love this town. I could write about it, all day long. But the time is not now. I can’t see very well through my tears.
I am letting go. It is so fucking hard, but I am finally letting go.
I am leaving New York City.
I am selling everything.
I am going back to Los Angeles.
I am going home.
And I am grieving. I haven’t quite processed the brevity of it all, because I am knee-deep in selling everything. And when I say everything, I mean EVERYTHING. It’s like a full-time job. It’s also therapeutic. What was I doing, holding onto silverware, pots and pans and a hand mixer I got for my wedding nineteen years ago? I am now undoing, piece by piece, the life I built here.
I am letting go.
It is my nature to keep quiet when things get hard. I need help breaking up with my boyfriend, New York City. I need my stuff to sell. I need to say goodbye to my dear friends and good neighbors here, and I really don’t know how to do it. I don’t have a lot of time. My lease is up at the end of this month.
“You’re crazy to leave that apartment!” they say.
But an apartment is not a reason to stay anywhere. I’m quite good at painting walls and picking out accent furniture. My worth is not measured by my address. It’s time to move on. It’s time for a new chapter.
It is time to start over. Again.
It’s scary as hellfire and brimstone, but it is also wonderfully freeing.
I am letting go. And I am beyond excited for the next adventure.