Before I moved, I'd never been better. I had (and still have, now they are just away) the friends and friendships I've always wanted. A healthy relationship. Self assurance and confidence, and not just shallow look-in-the-mirror-and-think-I'm-hot-confidence, real confidence. In who I am as a person. I knew myself. But, up here in New York, so far, it's different. I'm constantly being reassured that it will get better and New York will start to feel like home, and I believe all that. It just doesn't yet and I don't like that. I want everything here to be like it was there now.
Last week I was struggling. I was listening to Tove Lo over and over again and letting sadness and loneliness take over and swallow me. I was so sad my chest was hurting and I felt as if I couldn't breathe.
I came home from work Wednesday and laid on my bed in my room in the dark and cried. I missed Boyfriend and Bestie and my family and the sounds of Southern voices (everyone here sounds like they are in the mafia) and familiarity and having friends call who want to hang out with me and know me. I felt like moving here was a big mistake and like I'm going to fail at living. It was a huge dramatic mess, Wednesday night.
I called a friend and we talked about it. I turned the lights on and made myself some dinner. I snuggled Chico a bit. I cried some more, but with the lights on I knew it was going to be ok.