A year without me began with an innocent quest to step outside the boundaries of my own reason in order to prove that I was indeed worth living for.
It wasn’t an easy endeavor to bid adieu to the daily grind of clocking into a job that reduced me to the level of the very desk I sat at for almost seven years — toiling away for pathetic pay and condescending yearly reviews that offered no bonuses and a stifled salary raise.
I bore it all for the glory of maintaining my high-rise apartment in the sky in a city that demands more than it’s willing to give. But that determination gave way to sheer madness that released me from anymore pain and suffering.
I wrote all about my exodus from hell and it was not only blissfully therapeutic but it was the beginning of the journey that I believed would end exactly where I am now.
Right now. At this very moment, I am allowing the tears of recognition and grace to flow. It is kind of eerie to be here. I don’t think I ever doubted I will feel the sweet pangs of victory etching my very soul — but I do believe I was somewhat wary of whether or not I would be able to handle the tremendous joy of it.
A year ago — I was drifting without a compass. Stuck in the filth of somebody else’s making while trying to maintain myself even though I could feel my body and soul succumbing to the symptoms of disbelief.
I was living in New Orleans after leaving New York City for good. I accepted an invitation from someone that I thought was a friend but later discovered was an emotionally spent hoarder who had single-handedly destroyed my life with a click of a button.
I bore the brunt of my ill-fated decision for three months and then headed back to New York for extra punishment.
I was lost. A whole year had gone by and I had no idea what the fuck I was going to do but most importantly I had no solid idea of who I was.
My plan after vacating my corporate incubator was to be a full time writer but even that seemed like a fantasy.
I had botched a phone interview with The Huffington Post because I was still in robotic mode in New Orleans and unable to recall the relied tactics that I had landed me the nightmare job at The New York Public Library the year prior.
And my trail of bad luck continued after I arrived back in the city of my discontent. An editor an Bloomberg randomly reached out via email on Super Bowl Sunday (of all days!) and gave me the opportunity to prove my worth and of course I fucked that up. Well, maybe not totally — I didn’t think I did that badly but he apparently did,
So, it was back to the administrative world where I found myself giving in once again to survival mode rather than upholding my dignity. I did it for the money while convincing myself that there would come a day when I would proudly declare that I was nobody’s bitch but my own.
That day has come. After a year of living without me, I finally recognize the person I see when I look in the mirror.
I can proudly go to bed and rise in the morning fully engaged in who I am and what I’ve become. I can look back at the bad times without cringing because I am so darn grateful that they were that bad because things are now so unbelievably good.
I am a writer. I love what I do. I love that people love what I do. I love that I almost wanted to die from the pain of defeat. I love that I survived.
Most of all I love that I got my life back.