New York

It was 3 years ago that I left New York, with more fears of what is ahead than I ever have had in my life up to that moment. I have always been ready to move to remedy to a situation, especially for work. I usually play out all the possible scenarios, envision an old style scale in front of me loaded with the pros and cons, I ask for advice from the people I know will suggest an unbiased opinion and then, fairly quickly, I go with what my guts have been able to digest from all of that.
3 years ago it took the same amount of time but it was a lot harder to do.
Leaving behind strong friendships that were hard to come by, a city that still awed me every day despite the desire to escape it for the comfort of my home in the suburbs. My children, the most important thing in my life, the only reason I am alive today. After the divorce I was slowly self destructing in order to suppress pain that was coming from two sources: one known, and one still to be revealed and fully understood. The failure to provide and keep my family as such and, the gender dysphoria emerging with a vengeance. Slowly but steadily taking and consuming me.
This picture from 3 years ago though has made me smile many times and still does today as it has resurfaced on my Facebook timeline, was of the lid of one of the many boxes that my children and dearest friends helped me pack with my belongings of 27 years of New York living. My daughter wrote them, and while I smile, I also have a few tears.
There is so much in those few simple words hand written with what I hope is an indelible marker. As indelible as the memories I left behind, in New York.