Visiting New York for the First Time Since Moving to Australia
My anxiety is through the roof. I’m afraid something might happen to me. I Uber more than I take the train, and I remind myself of everyone I know who takes the train regularly. I think of how they are fine.
I’m excited to leave. I feel as soon as I land at my home airport I’ll be safe again.
That was my last journal entry in New York. That is not how it started.
That is how I felt when I left New York for the first time. I think I am remembering what I felt like, like muscle memory. I used to think of every bad thing that could happen to me. Catastrophic thinking. A traffic light falling on my head out of no where. Things like that.
Or, like one of those trap doors in the side walks, where kitchen workers bring products up and down the stairs to the basement of a restaurant- that too. I could fall right in. Why not? I don’t trust people who make structures and I don’t trust New York.
But visiting New York again started like this:
I began thinking about New York in March. I missed everything about it. I cried when I hung up with a friend on FaceTime, whom I met there.
I could list off the top of my head everything I wanted to do. Eat a bagel, and a slice of pizza. Go to Flaming Saddles on a weekday. The very first weekday. Walk through Central Park. See my friends, and laugh with them. Gossip. I did all of that.
At the first sight of the huge city I thought, what if I want to move back here? What if I miss working a corporate job? What if I get a piece of myself back that means more than the other pieces I gained this past year?
I took the train. And then I took it again. And again. And again.
I sat in traffic in the back of a cab.
After a few days I thought, “I could never move back here.” But I suffer from the chronic condition of not being able to simply visit a place. I must envision, and even consider moving there to enjoy it. I practiced experiencing my old home as a vacation destination, and I really enjoyed it. I marveled at all the people bustling down the street and thought how crazy it must be to live there. I felt like a tourist.
I spent money on overpriced coffee, and I enjoyed it. This is just New York! I thought, “How happy am I to not have to pay prices like this regularly anymore?” Prices even went up since the last time I had been. My favorite Mediterranean bowl went from 12 dollars to 17.
I even looked for things I hated about the city. That made me feel better about no longer living there.
I hated feeling constantly sweaty and dirty. I hated being surrounded by so many bodies and having my personal space invaded. I hated that I couldn’t quickly hop in a car or stroll down a street. There was an obstacle to surpass first.
My therapist pointed out exactly what I was doing. I tried to stop. And then I did therapy again. I couldn’t be present, I knew I couldn’t. I was thinking about waiting for my next Australia visa to be approved. I was thinking about when I am going back to my parents, and the next trip after that, and the one after that. And the holidays.
I have been checking off life events in my head for a while now. Probably my entire life.
I am questioning my purpose. I didn’t even notice I gained weight until I moved back to America. It didn’t matter to me before.
I am feeling guilty for spending money while not working. I found a freelance gig.
I was relieved when the end of the trip came. I don’t think that is any way to live. But I can’t battle my mind. I think that is what it is like when you are living in between your lives. When you are someone who moved abroad.