I bought flowers again

It took me over a year. From the moment I left my full-time job, it took me a year, almost to the day, to find another job in New York and begin to finally feel like I had found a home.

When I drove out to the city from Hartford, I had a plan. The Big Fancy transferred me to one of their stores in White Plains, and I would be selling designer clothes on commission. I would be living with my cousin Tati until I got the lay of the land. We had planned to find a place together once I arrived. She told me she was living with a friend and the room was cheap, but sounded excited with the idea of finding a place together.

I asked her if we could find an apartment with a big tub for bubble baths, an apartment with high ceilings and big windows. She told me in New York you could find anything, and I fell in love with the promise in those words.

It took a year. I am writing this, in part, for those who have been worried about me since I left home. The people who know some of what has happened have begged me to come back home. But I promised myself to give it at least a year, and I stuck to it.

See, I have always been a writer. Fiction is what I love, but for as long as I could remember, I have tried to keep journals. I destroyed my middle school journals after they fell in the wrong hands, and since then, I’ve avoided writing about the bad things.

It took me a year to start writing these things down, and it feels like the right time to share with the world what has happened.

So if you’re reading this, I want you to remember a few things: I am happy. I am safe. There is nothing New York has thrown at me that I can’t handle. But it sure as hell wasn’t easy.

And if you’re one of the people mentioned in this story, and you don’t like the way you’re portrayed, well, maybe you should have behaved a little bit better. Be happy I left out the last names.

Now, let me tell you my story.