Last night was the the last time I slept in my own bed, the one I bought in 2017 in NYC, not the one I'm currently occupying in my parents' house. Today it went into storage with the rest of my remaining belongings.

I may have lost a box in the move but was too tired and sore to do a thorough check of the truck since when I swung up to the truck bed I barely made it. Time has not been kind to my body, to say the least; I move like a 70 year old now.

Sure enough there have been the nightmares of other times in my life, the futility of my efforts so far, mine and others' lack of respect or pride in what I did accomplish before I lost it all.  I went out for a cigarette just now, looked up at the sky and superimposed on it was the ceiling of Grand Central. I look out to the bay and compare it to the view of the East River from Carl Schurz Park. I watch the news vistas from NYC and think of the sunsets, snowfalls, and city lights I've seen from my old office buildings.

Ithaca was my first safe haven, and when that period in my life was gone it was emphatically no longer a vision of comfort but a source of pain and regret. I hope I never feel that way about NYC but fear that I will.

I don't know when I'll be ok with this, or if I ever will. I'm no longer a New Yorker, with all of the attitude and resilience that identity brought with it. I'm no longer going to be in my chosen field, not that there's much left of that field now. Right now I've officially given up striving for a better life or any other sort of aspiration; I'm just too broken for that. I know with everything else going on in the world I have no reason to be this upset, but I am. Tonight I'll cry alone, tomorrow it's back to pretending everything's okay.