I'VE MOVED TO BROOKLYN!

So I have to make a confession, you guys.

I'm sure you all have noticed that I haven't exactly been the most active on this blog lately... (No, it's not just because I've been obsessively playing "Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp" since November.) The truth is, the last month or so has been one of turmoil and upheaval, for a bevy of personal reasons that I don't really feel comfortable sharing publicly. But this all ended up leading to one thing, a big piece of news that I have to share with all of you...

SARAH AND I HAVE MOVED TO BROOKLYN.

We're on the border of Flatbush and Prospect Lefferts Gardens

It hasn't exactly been the smoothest adjustment, as moving is never easy, especially in the middle of winter, but we did it and I am so proud of us.

And you know what? As my months-long depressive spell starts to lift, I'm coming to find that... I actually quite like Brooklyn.

Granted, I was not happy about this move at first.

I am a creature of habit. I knew that in order to pursue the school program that I want to get into, I'd have to move into New York and out of New Jersey eventually. But I do not like change. I want to be comfortable! I want to put down roots! And when the move began, I was in the middle of one of the worst depressive spells I'd had since 2011, the year of my last suicide attempt. (I say this not to scare, but because it's always been my policy on this blog to be open with mental health issues in order to fight the stigma against talking about mental health.)

The idea of packing up everything I owned and trying to find a place in New York within a week made me so anxious, that I barely slept or ate within that week. I wasn't the most pleasant to be around. I had probably at least 4 anxiety attacks and a whole lot more crying spells. I got in a couple arguments with Sarah. They say moving is one of the most stressful things a person can go through, and I believe it.

I was desperate, and losing hope fast. When I'd first moved to the East Coast, it had taken me a month of couchsurfing and rejection to find a place to live. It was traumatic. I didn't want to go through that again. I was scared to.

And on top of it all, I was angry. I was angry at the universe, at whichever deities would listen to me yell and sob, for letting this happen to me when all I'd wanted was to stay comfortable in a place I could call my home. I was angry at Sarah for not being more patient with my depression over having to leave Weehawken. And most of all, I was angry at myself for letting this happen.

I was angry at myself for moving to the East Coast in the first place. And I was the closest I've ever been to giving away all my belongings, calling up my mother, and telling her, "you were right, fuck this, bring me back to California."

The window in my bedroom, featuring my matryoshka collection

No, this move definitely wasn't easy. Sacrifices were made. Tears were shed. But Sarah and I got lucky. Our first day of apartment hunting, we found a building with a beautiful apartment on the second floor, within our budget, and - get this - right across the street from Prospect Park, my favourite park in all of New York City.

I was trying to put on a happy face for Sarah, but in my head I knew we probably wouldn't get it. It was probably too good to be true. I would probably just give up and go home, or worse, jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. I knew this but said nothing. We put down a deposit and waited. It was agony. I went back to New Jersey and continued to get all my belongings into little boxes like the world's most anxiety-inducing game of Tetris.

And then, two days later, I heard the news. We'd gotten the apartment. We were going to be living in Brooklyn, across the street from Prospect Park. (Granted, our apartment is at the back of the building, and faces the Q-train, not the park, but STILL!) And our move-in date was going to be 13 January!

I got this news on 10 January.

Shit.

See, the fun thing about depression and anxiety as mental illnesses is that even when the initial trigger goes away, the feelings don't always follow. They like to linger and latch onto whatever. I should have been celebrating the end of the apartment search, but instead I was completely freaking out over how I was supposed to get my stuff from point A to point B.

So I swallowed my pride and did the one thing I swore to myself I would never do as a real-life adult living so far away from my family.

I called my mother.

Obviously I didn't take a picture of what a mess packing made, so have this stock image

To her credit, my mother completely surprised me. She didn't agree with my anxieties and bring me home despite the fact that I know she'd love nothing more than for me to move back to California. She was a complete star and she deserves credit for that.

She hired us movers. And this is the other thing that deserves credit - with two days to go until the move, Dumbo Moving Company was completely wonderful and I really owe my mother a huge thank you for hiring them so I wouldn't have to drive a moving truck and probably have an aneurysm in the Lincoln Tunnel. (I've already thanked her profusely like a hundred times, of course, but still.) All of our belongings arrived in one piece in our Brooklyn apartment by 2PM on moving day, leaving us time to not only start unpacking, but to make a trip to the Red Hook IKEA in search of new furniture since we now had a living room - something we'd not had before.

All our problems were not over, of course. There was an adjustment period to contend with. I could hear the rumble of the Q-train going by every five minutes or so, and that annoyed me at first. (Though now I'm happy to report that I don't even hear it anymore. Like the sound doesn't even register to me.)

But worse than that, my depression had not lifted.

How could this empty apartment with its all-white walls that had once seemed too good to be true ever feel like a home?

Sarah at our IKEA kitchen table

But slowly, as things do, things began to feel less and less like some horrific inescapable nightmare and more like... well, routine. I like routine. Routine is comfortable.

Part of this, undoubtedly, is because I found a psychiatrist and got a prescription for Prozac after being unmedicated for five years. (I'd taken Zoloft before and stopped taking it because it started making me nauseous.) It's too early to tell if Prozac works well for me, but if nothing else my mood does already feel a lot more stable. And I'm proud of myself for taking the steps to get the help I need for my mental health. I'm proud of myself for finally learning that taking medication doesn't make me weak - it makes me stronger because I am doing everything in my power to control my mental illness instead of letting it control me.

But more than that, I started finding things to love about Brooklyn. I'd fallen so out of love with New York that I had to consciously combat my own negativity and search for things to love about Brooklyn. This is harder than it seems. Even things I used to love about NYC, such as looking up and seeing unique details on historic buildings, had grown to disgust me in my depression-disguised-as-homesickness. At first, the only positive I could think of was that being off the Q-train made my work commute much more convenient. But I was paying 50% more in rent to live in a much smaller bedroom, so was this really worth it?

As we began decorating more and more, however, it began to feel less like some weird dream and more like... well. More like we actually lived here. More like a home.

This reading nook is full of little hints that prove Sarah and I live here

And slowly (perhaps partially because of the aforementioned Prozac, and partially by the weather starting to warm up) my fog began to lift. I'm not completely out of the woods yet, but I'm a hell of a lot better than I was at the beginning of 2018. I'm beginning to realise that I like Brooklyn. I like living near Prospect Park, yes, but it's more than that.

First, I got a library card for Brooklyn. The closest library to our apartment is the Central Library of the Brooklyn library system. It is enormous. Much bigger than the Weehawken library was. Considering that one of my favourite ways to pass the time back in San Jose was to just spend all day in the giant downtown library, I was thrilled when I first walked into this library and realised I could resume this pastime.

Second, the food around here is wonderful. We're only a few subway stops away from my favourite taco place not just in Brooklyn, not just in New York, but ever. (Sorry, California...) Getting to return to the Jalapa Jar much more frequently is a huge plus. Not only that, but the neighbourhood we live in is full of Caribbean food. Last week I had never tried Caribbean food in my life. But the instant I did, I was immediately hooked. (Okay, okay, part of my initial curiosity was because of Hamilton feels, I admit it, leAVE ME BE. But now the curiosity has nothing to do with him and everything to do with my happy belly.) I've become excited to keep sampling all these different places, all these different dishes from all the different islands. So far, Food Sermon and Suzy's Roti Parlour are my favourites, but I've enjoyed all of what I've tried. (And I've been eating pretty much nothing but Caribbean food lately.) Since one of the first things that happens when my depression flares up is a loss of appetite, this is most welcome.

From our first apartment party!

I think I'm going to be okay. I think I'm going to like Brooklyn. I think one day I'm going to be sitting in Prospect Park, reading a book a checked out from the Brooklyn library and snacking on a Jamaican patty or a Trinidadian roti, and I'm going to realise that I got what I wanted when I moved from California.

I moved out here to live in New York City with Sarah. That was what I always dreamed of attaining.

And now, I have that.

I think I can learn to be happy with that.
-Nym