Last Thursday, I woke up in a notable funk. As soon as I opened my eyes and took my first conscious breath, it was evident it was going to be ‘one of those days.’ There was no explanation for feeling the way I did, so I just rolled with it, thinking that the next day would be a better one. Well, Friday morning brought more of the same, and it was the beginning of my slide to hell in a handbasket. (Does it sound more dramatic if I went in an actual basket?) The person looking back at me in the mirror flipped me the bird, and I was like, ‘WHAT ARE YOU GETTING PISSY WITH ME FOR?’ There was no way for me to shake it, so I accepted my fate and the fact that I was going to have to feel things I really didn’t want to.
One day last week, my friend sent me a text to see how I was doing. I sent her a text back telling her what was going on, and her response was super appropriate, and hilarious, ‘You must have been a giant asshole in a past life or something.’ My reply to her, ‘Was I ever!!’ I suspect that during one of those lives I was downright abhorred and had no friends whatsoever. Though I am currently dealing with the fallout of the choices I made lifetimes before this one, it comforts me to know that I am now only an accidental asshole (I ALWAYS SAY SORRY YOU GUYS) and am surrounded by totally kick-ass friends. Thank goodness that, in this life, I am doing something right. I am not going to lie, though, it has been tough the past 14 days dealing with the consequences of the assholery that was practiced a lifetime or two before me.
When I woke up yesterday morning and raised my body to get out of bed, my first thought was ‘FUCK. THIS.’ It was not a Folgers-in-your-cup kind of morning. Instead, it was one that elicited tears and made me wonder how much better I would feel if I were dead.
Not only is my uterus trying to destroy me, but I have a pain in my back that is so extreme simply existing is taxing. When I met my Chiropractor for an assessment of my back, he asked me, with a hint of gleeful anticipation, ‘What makes your back feel better?’ and my deadpan response was, ‘Not breathing.’ The x-rays he took confirmed the no breathing thing, and his assessment was that I was totally not messing around. I needed help. My back is in bad shape, and since ‘not breathing’ is not an option, he devised a plan of attack intent on relieving me of the horror plaguing me on a daily basis.
On the morning of August 28th, 2014, at 9:45 in the morning I was sitting in a window seat on flight AC7738, and in the distance, perched atop the low-lying clouds, like a flawlessly crafted piece of art, sat the Manhattan skyline. I couldn’t help but notice how small, and insignificant it looked from so far away. But I already knew from my time previously spent there; it was anything but that. And it was for that very reason I was on that plane, that morning, anxiously awaiting touchdown and my first breath of New York City air. New York City is the love of my life, and as we approached – its vastness beginning to reveal itself – I sat hopeful, that somehow on the streets far below, she would be able to fix me. I was in desperate need of healing, and it was her I chose to help me. So, when I exited the airport shuttle in front of my hotel, I closed my eyes, inhaled the Manhattan air into my lungs and surrendered my broken self to the city…my love.