26 March 2018

I want to write about this day two years ago, but also this week for the past two years. Today I am itching to travel. I have already obsessively checked enterprise, hertz, and Avis for a rental car to let us go. I’ve woken up from a dream of me fleeing to London and seeing you sitting on a bench because you came after me. I’ve done this life and this day by myself for a while now. But the past three years of doing it with you has made the difference.

Two years ago, we were in Chicago. We had only been together, together for a month—and I had only known you for two. Except when I was allotted my first wedding guest, and no longer looped into the family invite, I took a chance and ask if you wanted to come. So, two years ago, we boarded a plane and went to another city where you practically met my entire family, and that didn’t scare you away.

Fast forward another year to last year where together we were in Montreal, Canada, after just spent the past weekend traveling around Canada and boarded a 10 hour Amtrak train to New York City. For a change, we were with your family, although I had already met them when I too flew to be your wedding guest at your brother’s wedding in Germany.

It’s strange to think that this past week, for the past two years, we’ve been in different cities than our own, but this year I don’t know if it would change it.

I’ve heard a lot of fear resonating from people not in New York, about what it’s like in New York. I’ve had invites to leave, contemplative reasons to go. But as I work from home for the 8th consecutive day, I am thankful for what this city has given me, so for once, I won’t leave it behind.

It’s strange being here, I’ll give you that. I hear the horror stories of what hospitals are facing and what it feels like to have the virus. I catch myself wondering if I, too, could get it because I’ve stayed in the epicenter of the virus in the USA. But at my core, my heart aches for everyone who isn’t as lucky as me, because today I feel fortunate.

I find myself, these past few mornings reflecting on the past and what has happened since I’ve moved to New York. I finished a book about the loneliness that lingers within this city and how everyone feels that longing to be whole. This city is for the strong-minded and the firm will, and I can attest that it wasn’t me three years ago.

But as you grow with this city, it evolves with you. You learn how robust New Yorker’s are. How resilient and sturdy they can be. I’m still not entirely talking about me, but I now know what it feels like to not have a safety net to fall back on within this city. I know what it’s like to feel lonelier than ever and powerless within these hallowed street blocks and dampened dark rooms.

I’ve found myself staring down the fears of New York and submerging myself in those depths to come out the other side feeling the opportunity this city can have. Sure this virus has left many of us feeling stranded and alone, but to me, that is New York.

The city feels lonely now if you think of it in that way. For once in what could have been decades and centuries, not many people are going outside. Dust is starting to collect the stools that are turned over on dining tables and bar tops. It’s strange to see a single paper, tapped to a glass window of a typically illuminated and busy store, noting their indefinite closure. It’s sad to think that many restaurants, stores, and bars that I’ve come to love may not bounce back from this. That so many of my friends have lost an income because of this.

But for once, on March 26th, David and I are doing what we can to keep ourselves happy and sane in our small one-bedroom apartment. We’ve reminded ourselves to wash our hands, tidy our space, and do everything we can to remain as positive as we can this year.

Although I’m itching to go on another adventure, I am glad this year I too am still by my best friend’s side, taking this obstacle on one step at a time.

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It’s 2006

and A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out is playing through my headphones as I take on the bunny slope at Steamboat mountain during snowboarding school. I feel unstoppable, on top of the world, and invigorated. I am dressed in an all-pink outfit while my braids flap in the wind. The blonde girl you connected with is screaming the lyrics with you during the lunch break as your teacher, “Goose,” looks on mortified, but you can’t help but laugh.

Being in Steamboat again floods all those memories back, but I actually began to reflect on all of this weeks prior when I hear the songs that I used to burn on every CD I could get my hand on. It started with me buying way too much music on my iPod Nano to discovering the world of Limewire and having everything I could have wanted at my fingertips.

And because of that, there is an etherial period from 2003 to 2009 where all the music I sang along to then stricks a chord with me as an adult. I hear the famous note from MCR, the guitar rift from Sugar We’re Goin’ Down, Alex Gaskarth’s strain, and Brendon Urie belt out lyrics, and I can’t help but feel the same as I did when I was singing along as a teenager.

In the past decade, I have funneled into more acoustic singers, moody folk, indie bands, atmospheric instrumentalist, and orchestral ballads. Still, this music lives within some of the best memories and low times. I remember the first time I heard I Write Sins Not Tragedies on the radio, and having the CD blast in the car when I had my license. I remember feeling an immediate bond with and jealousy of my Freshman Year roommate after we exchanged numbers via Facebook, and she told me she was at Warped Tour.

This music brought me friends, connections, boyfriends, and conversation. I dated the boy that thought he was a rockstar and played in a cover band. He played songs that I played over and over in my bedroom as I dreamt of the punk boys and then realized they were better suited in the dreams. The songs brought me inspiration in the past and are nothing but happy memories now.

All of it felt full circle once Remembering Sunday came on shuffle while winding the curves of Olympic National Park in Washington and I watched the massive lakes glisten under the sunshine, and immediately felt like a teenager riding in my car and looping the song over and over just to feel at ease. 

17 January 2018

I forgot about SYML. I forgot about In My Body – EP, and I forgot all about Wildfire. I’m sure for a couple weeks after the 17th of January, I listened to the song and EP, but otherwise, I haven’t listened to it since. Well, until now, as it loops on my laptop as I write this post.

This post isn’t about how I discovered a song, but rather what the song meant to me on this date two years ago. I was nervous about getting on the 6-train Uptown and meeting a man to talk my truth. I paced midtown for about an hour, scoping out a bar for the two of us to meet and talk. I know he was mad or upset at me, probably a little scared about what I was going to say. I had my headphones tethering my music to my ears. I believe I discovered SYML days before, so I shuffled the albums I had of theirs. As I approached the Bloomberg Tower on 59th, I looked up as the second verse played.

In good time, you’ll come to know
When you release, when you let go
You can find yourself where you belong
You’re not a curse, you’re not too much
You are needed here, you are enough
And nothing’s gonna hold you down for long

On the 16th, I finally let go. I couldn’t wait to tell him that I let go, and I found myself where I belonged because, for the first time since I had moved to the city five months prior I, felt like I belonged in New York — I felt like I was enough. For the prior five months, I felt as if everything that was happening was an omen to what I deserved. I thought I was cursed or destined to fail because I felt like the people I was meeting were the ones who were defining my worth here.

I stared up and looked at the mirrored panes and saw my reflection looking back at me. I saw me here in New York, and I watched as I let go of everything that had happened prior. And because of that, I saw the way my reflection smiled back at me as the orchestra grew louder and louder in my ears.

I met the man with the most fabulous smile and broke the disappointing news, but I headed his fear and showed him that it was the best thing I could have ever done. That nothing was clouding my mind, and I was ready to start fresh and take in everything ahead of me, including him. After grabbing drinks and snacks at the bar, I walked him back to the Bloomberg Tower and made him stand in the spot and listen to the song that I had played on repeat. I stood in silence and looked up.

Darling, please don’t give up
Drop your hate and sing for love
Let me be the one who sings along

I looked at him and knew the second I dropped my hate yesterday I could sing for love and sing along with him. Some days since the 17th of January, I have forgotten how I felt and picked the hate back up. It fills me with confusion and fear, and I have to remember to tell myself to put it back and move forward.

Sometimes I forget I live in New York; I’ll get lost in Central Park and forget about the skyscrapers that tower over the city blocks. But now, every time I come from out of the trees and my routine, I smile when I look up and see how the city reflects in their mirrored panes.

**Play the song above while you read this post. From 2pm on 17 January 2018, until I went to bed, it’s all I listened to.