I moved to New York in a fever; the best kind of fever. Not yet twenty one, I had somehow convinced my parents to let me move onto the futon in my cousins’ apartment. My cousins Lou and Drew, and their roommate Greg-three thirty-ish old males and the fashion intern; one wild ride. I’d buy that ticket over again in a heartbeat. It was like having three brother bears: protective, loyal, and so much fun. I had never been more proud. I’d gotten a fashion internship as competitive as Harvard, in the best city in the world, doing something my parents slightly disapproved of. What could be better? A futon, a laptop, and a bunch of Carrie Bradshaw-esque cocktail rings I’d gotten in the jewelry aisle at Target. I was ready to give New York City more than it reckoned for; My new start.
I always associate the Sex and The City movie with my move to New York. I believe it came out the same summer. The glamour was real but so was the heartbreak.
Like any fever, it burned out. The fumes I was running on dissipated and I collapsed, a pile of bones and fabric atop six-inch heels.
I vividly remember Drew scooping me up out of a cab after a panic attack sent me on a midnight walk to Central Park.
I sobbed as the panic reaction pulsed through my body.
This is one of those times in life when you realize time, perspective, and a whole lot of professional help make a difference. I never thought I’d get past that moment. But here I am.