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a girl lives in brooklyn
I moved into Manhattan July fourth weekend 2011. For two years prior, I had been working in the city commuting from New Jersey. My main motivation for the move was to be closer to work. Taking the NJT train over an hour twice a day was draining and costly. I wasn’t necessarily excited about living in NYC but I was ready for a change.
The previous October, I ended a 4-year abusive relationship and immediately started seeing a therapist. I began trying to have a normal life again. I went out on dates, met people, slept with people. I was more than ready to get out of my NJ apartment that held many bad memories of the bad relationship. A friend offered me a room in her UWS apartment and I happily accepted. It would be a change of scenery plus closer to my job. It seemed like a good move all around.
Honestly, I never desired to live in NYC. I wanted a shorter commute and I wanted to move somewhere new. The city fit both criteria. But I never dreamed of living in Manhattan when I was younger. Now I love living here, but I certainly didn’t that first year.
The apartment I moved into was at W. 108th st and Broadway. A fifth floor walk-up. With little direct sunlight. My bedroom just barely fit a full sized bed.
The first night in the apartment, my roomamte woke me up to help her take care of a dead mouse in the kitchen.
The last night in the apartment, my roommate woke me up freaking out that a cockroach fell on his face.
But in NYC it’s not about the apartment, it’s about the location. The location was the best/worst part for me. It certainly was convenient being a block away from many food places, clothing stores, and quintessential nyc attractions. But everything felt busy all the time. It felt like there were always people everywhere. The tall buildings made me feel claustrophobic. The lack of sunlight made everything dreary. Plus, everything was considerably more expensive than other parts of the city. And you all know how I am about money.
I know depression had been building inside since the break-up. And especially since I was talking about a lot of things in therapy. It was the first time I was really taking care of myself emotionally. And my brain was not happy about that.
Depression would have found me either way but moving into an overpopulated city the size of a shoebox where everyone feels alone in the crowd certainly sped up the process.
As soon as I moved into the city, I suddenly wanted to spend less time with my new group of friends. I had been going out so often that it finally caught up to me. I didn’t adjust to the lack of privacy very well. Public transportation meant I was around people all the time. The only way to escape from people was to sit at home in my dark apartment. So I did a lot of that.
I should say I spent a lot of time at home when I wasn’t at work, which honestly wasn’t often. I was working a job I no longer enjoyed from 8a-7p daily. Long hours. Boring work. Sure, it was close-by but that just meant work expected me there more.
Sometime in August, I started waking up every morning crying. This crying would continue until I could either pull myself together to go to work. Or if I couldn’t find the energy, I’d call in sick. Going out into the world felt overwhelming. Caring about anything was exhausting. Showering daily felt like an impossible task.
I began crying everywhere. At work in the middle of the day. On the way home on the train. Every night to fall asleep. Every morning when I woke up. Anything else I did was just in between crying sessions.
Depression is different for everyone. And it is impossible to describe if you haven’t experienced it. It’s not a lack of motivation. Because nothing feels good. Period. Ever. When I tried to go for a run, I would just feel as sad after as I did before. Nothing mattered. Who cares if I take a shower or not? I’m not leaving the apartment. Why do I need to eat? I’ll still feel sad anyway. Why bother stop crying? I’m only going to cry later. If nothing will make me feel better, then why bother trying at all.
It felt like I was living in darkness. An actual dark cloud of sadness. I guess that’s an expression for a reason. The bouts of crying were never triggered. It was never because I had a sad thought or watched a sad movie. They just overcame me. It felt like I was crying “for no reason.” Though there was a reason, buried back there.
Even though my lease wasn’t up until July 2012, by January I couldn’t handle living in Manhattan anymore. I spent two weeks barely showering and hardly eating but mustered enough energy to apartment hunt. By the middle of February I signed a lease for a 1br apartment in a residential neighborhood of Brooklyn. I currently live in that apartment.
The new apartment was amazing. It was huge. Fifth floor with an elevator. In a part of Brooklyn with families and homes. The sidewalks weren’t crowded with people. Tourists didn’t get down that far. Lots of natural light in the apartment. I was living on my own. No roommates judging or complaining. Just me, happy to do whatever I liked. Which at the time was mainly sit on the couch in my underwear sobbing all night long.
At the same exact time, I also found a new job. I was trying my hardest to fight this depression but depression was not giving up easily. I now had a new job away from midtown. Actual 9a-5p hours. Doing something I enjoyed. With coworkers who were wonderful and supportive.
On paper, everything was going great. It really was. And depression didn’t care one bit. I was still sad. I was still crying. Except now I was crying alone in my giant apartment away from all my friends. I was still hardly showering and eating. It’s hard to eat and cry at the same time.
This part was the hardest. To sit there thinking “I should be happy. I’m supposed to be happy. Why aren’t I happy? What is wrong with me? A normal person would be happy. I just want to be normal. I will never be normal.”
I was still waking up crying every morning.
In the beginning of March, I woke up one morning crying. Really crying. This didn’t happen as often as just regular crying. Trust me, when you spend most of your waking days crying, you learn to identify different types of cries. That morning was the hysterical-sobbing-hyperventilating type of crying. I couldn’t breathe. I was hysterical walking around my apartment. I couldn’t stop. I thought I was going to be sick.
I stood in the kitchen for a moment and had one long stream of thought: I should call in to work today, I’m so tired, I just want to lay down, I just want quiet, I just want to stop crying, I just want some rest, I’m so tired, I just want to sleep for a little bit, I just want a break, I want all this to stop, I could take the big kitchen knife, go lay down in bed, slit my wrists, then it would be finally be quiet, that sounds so relaxing, I can just lay in bed all day, so relaxing.
I didn’t want to die. I just wanted a break.
With the coaxing of my therapist, I began reaching out for help around this time. Instead of laying down in bed with a kitchen knife, I instead turned to an online Depression forum. It sounds silly but it was actually very helpful. In that moment, I wanted help but also anonymity. Kind words were said to me by people who actually understood what I was going through. From that, I built a few relationships to help me get through the tough times.
After that day, I started to reach out more to friends as well. Instead of hiding in my apartment or going out and pretending everything was fine, I started talking about it. There’s a point where you stop caring so much that you’re not even embarrassed anymore. I was at that point. “I’m too sad to shower and too sad to care.”
I was also referred to a psychiatrist and prescribed a low dose of Welbutrin to “help take the edge off.” And that is exactly what it did. Between opening up about my depression and taking the medication, by May I had gotten to a point where I could function. Don’t get me wrong, I was still very sad. But I could eat dinner and shower.
By summer, I had stopped crying every morning. I was still crying. Just not as much. Which was still probably a lot compared to someone not depressed. Sometimes I called into work. Sometimes I canceled on friends. I still felt alone. But I wasn’t crying every single morning. And I started feeling like I could take on added responsibilities. I began volunteering and adopted two cats. Small steps. Nothing overwhelming.
By that fall, over a year after moving into Manhattan, I was finally coming into my own. I had my own likes and dislikes in nyc. I had favorite bars and restaurants. Favorite neighborhoods. My commute was perfected. I knew the subway system. I began feeling like I belonged. But of course I wasn’t out of it completely.
Because it’s three years later and I’m still not. I still cry, just not every single day. I still feel sad some mornings. But I no longer call into work over it. I function now. I shower, eat, socialize. I have grown friendships with supportive people who care about me. I’ve learned how to live a life and not take anything for granted. I’ve also learned that NYC can be a real bitch.