In other words, New York ultimately became my therapist. And it was a really good one... albeit with an extremely high hourly rate.
It took me just shy of half a decade to get exactly what I needed. I “did me.” I became a writer, dated like crazy after pretty much never doing it before, embraced the culture and the nightlife (read: drank a lot), and regained that fleeting feeling of being, at least on some level, invincible. I was constantly stimulated, learning more about myself than I ever thought possible -- all while being surrounded by some of the best people I’d ever met. I even once had a rat kicked on my foot during a late-night run to Lombardi’s. Seriously. The city figuratively and literally branded me.
And then like any successful therapy session, I inevitably had my breakthrough.