Virtually Gina

I moved to New York six years ago, fulfilling a lifelong dream. However, it wasn’t long afterwards that I began to suspect that I might very well have joined a cult.

The Big Apple. La Gran Manzana. Home of Lady Liberty. Backdrop to all my favorite books, TV shows, and movies. By the time I moved here at age 37, I had already spent time living in other East Coast cities: DC, Boston, Philadelpha. I was a seasoned Northeasterner, finally having arrived atop the jewel in the crown, as far as American cities go. I was over the moon . . . just look at my old blog posts circa April 2017 if you need evidence.

Like many who were either born here or had transplanted to NYC, I was of the mind that New York had some profound, magical quality not possessed by any other city, and was therefore superior.

Career-wise, things blossomed for me pretty quickly here, in spite of years of struggle in other cities. Was it that I had sufficiently matured — a late bloomer who had finally found her stride? Or was it the city taking me in, asking me, with a wink: “What took you so long?”

At the same time. I started to do things that I might have thought a little odd at other stages in life, pre-New York cult days. Things like selling my car, changing the way I talked, changing my style of dress, distancing myself from friends and family members who weren’t members of the cult, and truly starting to believe that those who didn’t live here simply couldn’t understand: THE NEW YORK WAY IS THE RIGHT WAY, THEY’VE GOT IT ALL WRONG, AND SOMEDAY THEY’LL COME TO SEE THE ERROR OF THEIR WAYS. (Sorry for yelling.)

I proceeded to pour all of my time, money, and energy into living in the cult (a.k.a. New York) until I was deeply in debt (but student debt–“the good kind”) and exhausted down to my bone marrow.

Maybe I could still figure out some way to hustle my other New Yorkers/cult members and strike it rich . . . or at least land a cushy city job with frou-frou benefits. In fact, I was well on my way to the latter when the pandemic hit. Many New York transplants fled in horror, and who could blame them? We were told that as far as USA went, we were at the epicenter of the epicenter. Still I remained, my tentative roots firmly planted in NYC soil, a loyal cult member through and through.

I posted optimistic blog entries and some with mournful undertones. Like others who stayed put through the quarantine lockdown, I held out hope that we could come out the other side, having grown stronger for it. I saw signs posted in apartment windows: New York Always Prevails and New York Tough. Was it the truth, or just cult propaganda?

And then, voila. In 2022, the city started to come back to life. Those who had fled in terror returned to a changed city. Rougher around the edges, perhaps, but stronger. We were ALIVE, and now we would pay for it.

If New York City had been expensive pre-pandemic, it reached record levels as the masses returned, rents increased, and inflation hit on a global scale. In 2022, New York tied with Singapore as the most expensive place to live on earth. The entire planet, people. This, in combination with the crowds that had once again filled the streets, the loud noises, obnoxious fumes, the rats, the filth, the urine smells (especially in summertime), the long lines for EVERYTHING, the vacant, glazed-over look in my fellow New Yorkers’/cult members’ eyes, and it began to hit me that alas, another way of life might still exist.

Would it be possible to leave this place? Six years in, I dream about moving back to Minneapolis–my hometown–or maybe trying out another city where I haven’t lived before. Somewhere warmer, perhaps. Less expensive. Calmer, quieter. Somewhere free of all the baggage.

And yet, I can’t help but admit my fear that if I leave, I will be haunted forever. Having lived in and left this city, maybe New Yorkers will think of me and shake their heads. She gave up. A lost cause. She’ll be back when she hits rock bottom.

I fear that I’ll be like a traumatized war veteran who wakes up sweating at 3 a.m., my head swimming from night terrors and flashbacks. New York, I’ll cry. And in response, I’ll hear a whisper in the dark: “Why have you forsaken me?”

I fear that I won’t find the relative success, the licensure, the fancy letters after my name that didn’t arrive until I gave myself over fully to this wily city and her seductive ways. Maybe it will take years of therapy to undo what has already been done here in New York City, a.k.a. My Own Personal Cult.

Of course, there is the possibility that if I leave, I might find freedom, rest, friendship, a backyard garden. Who knows?

There’s only one way to find out.