After nearly three and a half months in New York, a fiasco occurred in my personal life, so ridiculous it could have formed the premise in a Woody Allen movie. And the worst thing was, both myself and all my friends had seen all the warning signs. I’d been heavily cautioned otherwise, but as I was wont to do, I threw caution to the wind, and did as I pleased. The sudden turn of events left me mortified and traumatized.
Consequently, I decided to pack up and leave New York briefly, and run away to San Francisco to be with my on again, off again San Francisco boyfriend, who was so willing to accept me despite my flaws, and the emotional roller-coaster we had been through in the past several months. I was down in the dumps, but I really had nobody to blame but myself for the way things had turned out, and I had been prepared to accept the consequences of my actions once I went down that path. However, I was grateful that the circumstances hadn’t been worse.
In hindsight, I thought I would use the move to challenge myself in different ways and grow as a person, but looking back on the past several months, I had really only used it so far to engage in hedonistic pursuits. And while it was fun for awhile, it wasn’t really challenging or fulfilling to live in that way.
It was with these reflections in mind that I packed up my belongings from my Brooklyn apartment, and said goodbye to the city that I’d had a tumultuous relationship with, for the past three and a half months.
The next day, I arrived in San Francisco thinking about how I’d left only 4 weeks earlier, and that I had left intending never to come back this year. Ironically, I was now back to live, temporarily.