Goodbye, blue room

When I moved to New York I didn’t have many friends. I had a roommate I went to high school with, a friend who went to Pratt and a friend who lived in central Jersey. 

I like to think my apartment brought people together. 

“Why are you moving?”

“I’m ready to move on.”

“So you’re moving to Bushwick.”

The sun seemed brighter the next morning, it was a warm 50, a man in a tracksuit let me cut in front of him at the bodega, I got to sit on the train, work went by fast. 

It’s exciting to move. I love to decorate and rearrange but it’s also really scary moving from a place you lived in for four years and understand as your adult home. There’s a certain significance to this apartment, this home, that is similar to the home I grew up in too. I lived my life here and grew up, in a new way, here. The blue room will always be my home. 

I always joke that I'm the only person in New York who has never moved. And I’m still surprised that I did. It feels weird. I keep waking up and feeling like I spent the night at a friend’s house. But with all of my art and books displayed. With my clothes in the closet and my cat sleeping in the sun. It’s the same neighborhood but from a different perspective, a new angle. 

“Right next to the liquor store,” I always tell people after I send them my address. I can’t help but think about how much business my friends, the guys I date and I have given that liquor store in the past four years. Weirdly, the liquor store was a vital part of my time there. I became friends with Cris and used to bring rent checks to Juan. Shots for free before everytime we used to go out. 

And when I was making friends, I would always invite people over, it seemed like the easiest way to accelerate a friendship. This apartment brought me and my friends together. I pretended I was an influencer and asked my friends their favorite memory in my apartment. 

“When I fell asleep in the bathroom.”

“When I wasn’t even drunk yet and I fell into the picture in the kitchen.”

“When we popped champagne bottles on the roof even though it was 30 degrees outside.”

“When we had the Euphoria party and took pictures.”

“Friendsgiving.”

“Your 26th birthday party.”

Four years of irreplaceable memories. I’ve written about my love for New York countless times but I never thought to sit down and write down my love for my apartment. I loved my apartment. 90 percent of the time I loved my apartment. Like personal style, an apartment is a direct reflection of who I am. Clean, neat, cluttered, maximalist. 

“I’m going to miss Ridgewood,” I say after I officially sign a new lease. I’m moving a 13-minute walk away. I’ll be back. I spent most of my time in Bushwick anyway. The Bushwick-Ridgewood border is my home. But Ridgewood has my nail salon (I’ve already been back even though I lived at my new place for only 5 days), my favorite grocery store, a coffee shop I went every Saturday, the kitschy shop where I bought my Christmas cards, the thrift store I went to whenever I wanted to waste time. My downstairs local liquor store. 

The apartment where a man told me he loved me for the first time. The first man ever. And where I said it back and genuinely meant it. I cried in the same spot over the same man 6 months later. I hosted my first dinner party in that apartment, my first Friendsgiving that ended with us drinking wine and smoking cigarettes on the stoop at 1 in the morning. My first real party, in general, 1970s theme. 

Laughs, tears, smiles, regrets. Of course, New York changed my life, but my life changed in this apartment. 

My friends were brought together. By this apartment.

Goodbye, blue room.

Just another day

Fifty-three books, 119 movies, 75 walks with the dog, 27 recipes executed flawlessly (give or take a few), a million hours spent on FaceTime.

My skin didn’t clear up, I didn’t finish my Lasting Work of Important Fiction, I didn’t initiate a change in this world. Quarantine has, undeniably, turned me into my best and my worst self. While quarantine is far from over, I'm going home to my New York City.

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I think about my grandfather. He lived the most storied life of anything I know — and I don’t even know half of it. He survived World War II in his home country of Italy, started a new life in Venezuela where he met my American grandmother, moved to the US only speaking broken English to a place where no one spoke his Italian or Spanish and worked two jobs. 

I think about what I’ve done. I think of a line from "Broad City” that Abbi asks Illana on her birthday that I always annoy my friends with on their birthdays: "What have you done this past year that you're proud of and what are you gonna do this upcoming year?" I ask myself a similar question: What have I done the past 10 years that I'm proud of and what am I gonna do with this upcoming 10 years? I started and graduated high school, college, got a driver's license. I completed five internships, have had three full time jobs, written at least a trillion words, decorated a comfortable apartment, lived in Boston, New York City and made life-long friends in both places. Traveled across this country, a handful of places across the globe and loved every minute. 

During quarantine, I’ve realized that I’m just...obsessed with the future. We live in a world where our twenties mean everything to us. Obsessed with the next move. The next outing with friends. The next time I’ll travel to my hometown. I’m always looking forward. Planning and plotting my next move. But is there something wrong with that? Is it vain, shallow? Is it immature, or my lust for life? I haven’t decided yet.

Where will I go on my next trip? When is the next concert I’m attending? Who is the next friend visiting me? I have no answers to these questions spiraling through my head. I tend to lose sight of what’s happening right in front of me. Does that make me unappreciative? I haven't decided yet.

My first days in quarantine, in self-isolation, I felt guilty for feeling like a shell of my former self, wearing the same Astroworld shirt five days in a row (and it’s not even my shirt). I was overwhelmed with anxiety and hopelessness.

We cannot party, distract, or overwork ourselves out of the discomfort.

But I’ve been learning to reconnect with the moment. I’ve always taken one day at a time. And while I’m spontaneous and impulsive, it has been hard to take one day at a time now. One hour, one minute. I don’t know where the next minute will lead and I’ve accepted that. Tomorrow is a new day, a new experience. 

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I lost my job in September of 2019. It wasn’t my dream job. It wasn’t even necessarily a good or fun job. But I felt like I lost everything. My sense of control, routine, self. For some reason, it’s still something I’m putting behind me even after finding a new job. It took me a long time to feel that sense of control and routine again that I wanted. It took me a long time to feel financially secure again, to even feel secure in myself and my worth. 

Quarantine and a pandemic has put into perspective what I want. And to feel secure without my routines and daily life. Life is too short. I feel robbed, like I’m losing a year. I don’t want a second job, I don’t want to be crying over boys, I don’t want to be rushing my life.

I’ve always been a “yes, man.” Yes to a trip to Chicago, yes to that extra shot with you, yes to proofreading your thesis the night before it’s due. 

I think about timing. Timing is everything. Timing has been both in my favor and against me. It seemed that nothing in my life that I had pre-quarantine was going to be there for me on the other side when this is all over. I was laid off at the beginning of the pandemic and my relationship, my friendships and my home have been placed on pause. But I’m not mad at anyone but the circumstances. 

Everything that once fit, suddenly didn’t. FaceTime calls with city friends have turned us into long-distance penpals.

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I am so sad about the state of the world that it feels like a knife twisting in the pit of my stomach. The urge to cry has been hanging over me for weeks like a day that never comes. The mix of absorbing so much devastating news then consuming almost nothing. It hurts me that I cannot attend rallies in NYC when I want to fight so badly for my friends, my community. Black Lives Matter. America was already broken. This is deeper than a virus.

To the hundreds of thousands of lives we’ve lost to COVID-19, to the thousands fighting and protesting in the name of Black Lives Matter, to the ones witnessing death and loss every day and have to come home and move forward with their lives, to the ones who keep our world turning everyday. 

A love letter to NYC in the time of quarantine

I miss New York on a sticky Friday summer night.

Specifically, that one Friday night in June when I made Bre try her first Thai iced tea, we walked around the East Village and, for some reason, I paid $25 to see “Toy Story 4.”

Saying hi to Juan who owns the liquor store downstairs (he once unclogged my toilet), sitting on my fire escape drinking coffee and if it’s a clear day maybe I can see the Empire State Building. That one time I accidently kicked a rat while wearing my favorite clogs, the pure excitement of running into someone you know on the street, forever looking up to see ancient architecture. The glee of landing at LaGuardia and knowing you’re home (then remembering your phone never works at LaGuardia and it’ll take you at least an hour to get out of there). I miss it.

I miss my ride on the M train every Sunday, morning coffee in hand, staring out the window. I miss watching girls apply makeup on the train before work, thinking I could never do that without spilling a million products. Photoshoots on the High Line and Fifth Ave, looking at all of the “art” on Museum Mile, wondering if I need any for my own apartment, an egg and cheese on a croissant from Raquel’s favorite bakery every time she visits. The cheap seats at a Yankees game, hollering at Aaron Judge. The long walk to an out-of-the-way bodega and views of the Brooklyn Bridge along the way.  Sharing nachos at an Irish bar during happy hour, then the 17 minute wait for the L train. And then those nights where you actually decide to take a car home, the driver asks if you want to take the bridge or the tunnel...you always say bridge.

As much as we complain all day about how many people live here, I miss busy sidewalks in Soho and packed trains. The crowded walks around my favorite streets. I miss swaying to the music in Washington Square Park, then instantly being disgusted that someone is letting their child play in fountain water.

The first steps you take outside when it’s a sunny day and you immediately feel the heat on your skin. Or the run back up the stairs when you didn’t know it was raining and have to grab an umbrella.

I want a big fat bagel! And a dollar slice of pizza at 3 a.m. (or a $6 Artichoke slice, whatever I see first). I want to make kissy noises at a bodega cat. I want to walk 33 blocks and two avenues east just so I can take my favorite subway home. I want to get too excited thinking it’s nice out and dress inappropriately for the weather and sit outside for brunch.

My twenties - the messiest, most confusing, acrimonious years of my life. My greatest years, really. A new city. Always working at least two jobs. I live paycheck to paycheck but I’m really living, ya feel? I’m far from my “grown-up,” “professional,” “put-together” self when I think of my New York.

The first sip I ever had of a tequila sunrise (thanks Samantha). Sharing my thin college dorm mirror (even though I’m a 25-year old graduate) with two friends trying to get ready for a night out. Sneaking into Raquel’s room after I didn’t spend the night with her even though I was supposed to. Creating playlists instead of love letters. Bre arguing with bartenders. Wanting to walk across every bridge in the city (I’ve walked across 5). The power outage last July and having to walk 50 blocks uptown to the Heights when we couldn’t take the subway home. Squeezing each other’s arms and hands while out on the dance floor because we think this is our greatest moment - and it is. I miss my nail lady! And splitting the cheapest bottle of pink boxed wine we can find, making friends with the people in line for the bathroom, going out with a girl you met two days ago at work. That incomparable night when we stayed out until 8 a.m. for some reason. I miss trying to translate everything from Spanish. The one time I was a part of a Dungeons and Dragons crew. Singing Disney karaoke with each other and borderline have lost your voice from belting too many anthems. I even miss that one time I drank too much and fell asleep in the middle of a house party (it has happened twice actually).

I’ve lived out the greatest New York fantasies. I’ve drank at McSorley's (the "oldest" bar in NYC), dressed up as Queens’ Sweetheart, Miss Fran Fine for Halloween, got a big girl job then threw up on two different trains after "celebrating" too much, walked by the Macy's balloons the day before Thanksgiving. I knocked off seeing the Strokes and Billy Joel in concert from my bucket list (as they are both the greatest acts to come out of NYC). Dancing at a packed rap show in a community dark room when it was 90 degrees out. I texted directions to a Boston friend who was spending the weekend with me. “I’m on Park Ave, between 32nd and 33rd.” So she wouldn’t think I’m pretentious, I wrote in another text: “That’s how New Yorkers talk lol.”

And it’s these highly specific and the extremely unexpected things from my New York I miss the most. Because it’s what makes New York, my New York.

I once lost my sweater at a drag show. I walk to P.S. 81 to vote (and shamelessly post a picture of my sticker on socials). Romantic movie nights in Bryant Park. Ancient roller coasters of Coney Island, Madison Square Garden concerts, Broadway and off-Broadway shows, pretending to be Blair Waldorf on the Met steps, having breakfast at Tiffany’s, yelling at sporting events, fashion week parties, finding a new part of Central Park every time I go there.  People watching and thinking how I could recreate the outfits of fashion girls with my own clothes. I even miss the thought of having to move apartments. Going the wrong way on the train, shoving tourists out of the way, discovering my new favorite places and getting lost in the best way possible. The tears, the heartache, the -$67.54 in my bank account.

I miss my New York. Where any dinner conversations keep going after the check is paid. Where the bartender gives us free shots. Where I make new friends on a rooftop party just simply for being there. Where Friday nights are spent in museums imagining stories for the subjects and what pieces would look best in our apartments.

I love the way a room feels when everyone's drinking and dancing and smiling and laughing and celebrating life in general. I'll never be this young again so I'm taking advantage of every second and every moment I can. I love to capture moments, in photographs, in winks across the dance floor, all of it.

You know when you walk into a room and immediately forget why you are there? What am I forgetting? That's how I felt leaving New York. I felt guilty and scared leaving New York during such a trying time. It's true though. New York went on without me. Forgot about me just like that. Moved on so quickly. It's weird to not know when I'll see my friends next. To see them everyday, then to not see anyone at all. To go from having every second of the day planned between work, dinner dates to movie nights and sleepovers. To not go out on weekends. The past two years of my life are scattered around this city. In coffee shops, in independent movie theaters, in concert venues. I can’t imagine not being in New York.

Life feels so real here. Like I'm doing something worthwhile (or on my way to). I feel at home at the rat-infested subways and during a busy rush hour in Midtown. The fast-paced environment is motivating and a reminder to where I am, why I'm here and how far, how long, how hard it has taken for me to get here. The pieces are still coming together. I don't have my dream job, but great friends who I can still experience every inch and part of New York with. There's still the inner dialogue inside me telling me I should have everything figured out by now. But the same inner dialogue telling me it's okay I'm falling short. No one has it figured out. I've still never felt more content and more at peace knowing my home is New York.

I don’t know how but somehow New York has made me more patient. I’ve learned to not rush. I’ll give a tourist the directions they need. I want to give. I want to see and do everything, have as many experiences as possible. New York changed my perspective and the way I approach literally everything. I want to say “I love you” and talk about my feelings without my voice cracking. Don’t beat yourself for always being the youngest person in the office, for having the lowest level job, for not having a date to the company event. I allow myself to talk to my friends about everything and anything. New York has somehow taught me it’s all okay.

New York has been there to celebrate birthdays, find my best friends. New York was there when I got my heart broken. A shot and a beer (or three) when I was let go from a deadend job I depended on. New York will be there. New York is a place where bodegas (or liquor stores, hi Juan!) feel like second homes.

I never want to see fluffy coffee again, I never want to (attempt to) learn a TikTok dance ever again, I never want to bake another banana bread for as long as I’m alive. And I will admit, I dream of a place with better weather, a place I can drive. I’ve been overwhelmed and exhausted. Everyone’s heard me say it: I live in the greatest city in the world. New York, simply, is my home. My dream city.

To my New York, we miss you, we love you.

The dawn of #SummerofKrista

About a year ago I “created” #SummerofKrista to get over a guy. And it worked. 

We had a great month together. I got drunk and told him he was the one. I told him the same thing weeks later, and sober. He agreed both times. The second month he got a new job. He loved his new job. I loved that he loved his new job. I told him I wanted that for myself one day. It made me happy to hear him talk about it with pride. He had been out of college nine years (it’s true - I was fully obsessed with a man that much older than me) and waited nine years for a job like this. Everything changed. 

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Similar to the “treat yo’self phenomenon” of 2011 (and beyond, I’m still treating myself with no shame to this day), #SummerofKrista was about doing whatever I wanted, for myself. And you think, Krista, you usually do whatever you want for yourself anyway.  Yes. But this time I did it consciously. And in spite. I promised to stay celibate (failed) and to not reply to any exes (faaaaailed). That summer was about me and doing what I needed to do to be me. Your 20s are supposed to be filled with staying out late, drinking too much, eating junk food and living life in the best possible way. I needed that. 

And, of course, I didn’t necessarily “create” #SummerofKrista. I was inspired by fellow self-help guru George Costanza of Seinfeld infamy. George is let go from the Yankees therefore proclaiming this the summer of George! While George became worryingly lazy (ending up in the hospital), I took the mentality and spirit and went forward with the newfound summer and lived life to its fullest. 

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The promises weren’t kept with him. I watched myself become sad over this man and for what? He’s notorious for being the first guy to ever make me cry (imagine having the power to break ~me!~). I became a stranger to myself. He felt like the first man I could love. When we would kiss before parting ways on the train. Kissed and ran in the rain. Put our arms around each other easily while walking down the street, always in sync. Him doing work at the kitchen table and me reading a book on the couch. Our bodies wrapped perfectly together in bed intertwined fifty different ways. Talking about everything and anything. Everything was natural. 

I was trying to build something. He told me he wanted to build something. To grow. To have a relationship. But his job was his priority and I wanted more. Our time was off. He apologized. The uncertainty, insecurity, the idea that I did something wrong ate me alive. And I didn’t deserve that. I broke it off. I commenced my summer. 

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I love being independent and self-supportive. I don't depend on a man to tell me I look good and I have never felt this good about the way I look ever. “Men are luxuries,” in the words of Cher. 

Since moving to New York two years ago, I had a craving for romance and lust. Yes, of course, wanting a boyfriend and romance is usually on a girl's mind (mine included) but it's never something I truly "craved." I had dates in college but nothing stuck. I thought it seemed like an added bonus to have a boy by my side. Nothing that seemed essential for me. I've always been the type of person who felt like they didn't need to be in a relationship. Or really, I made a promise to myself to never be the type of person who felt like they needed to be in a relationship. I realized I never craved a relationship with a man before because I was so fulfilled by my female friendships. I didn’t have that for so long since moving and that made me sad. I never had the emotional need to have a deeper connection with someone “special” because I already had it. And then I didn’t. (I have since made friends, shoutout to my girls and gays, I really don’t know where I’d be without you.)

Friends influence us more than we realize. I have caught myself using my friends' mannerisms, sayings or finding fun in their interests that I previously knew nothing about (electronicpop music, sports, cooking shows). I am a better communicator, more soulful and better person because of my friends. They all make me who I am. And, now I think I want that in a significant other. 

And when I thought I found it in this man, I wanted to hold onto it. I had never had something like that before. But my spirit was broken, his lack of energy was draining and I forgot who I was. This wasn’t me. My love for myself was greater. I couldn’t waste another day in heartache over something that...wasn’t. 

I like to look at life with an optimistic lens. I believe in fate. Not for a second am I humble or modest: my friends and I deserve everything this world has to offer and we are going to get it. In terms of jobs, apartments, and, yes, men. 

I forgave myself for not being the best. I forgave myself for not forgiving others. I wish I could have predicted the future or done something differently but I'm glad for the way everything has turned out. One of my frequent catchphrases when life tests me is: "it builds character" and, let me tell you, a lot of character was build this past year.

I always put myself, my education, my jobs before anything else in my life though. I come first and that is something I remind my friends stressing over boys everyday. I’m still learning this. You are first. 

I love feeling life. I love feeling my heart race from a concert or romantic moments. Pain is good. Joy is good. You will feel broken and hopeless and that's part of life. Your experience will be unlike anyone else's. We could do the same thing and have a different outcome from it. It's important to have your own experiences. It's life. Your most painful, broken and hopeless moments will teach you the most about yourself. Life has tested me this past year, given me an uncertainty, but with that, growth. 

30ish Days Later

I miss New York. My New York. We were told to stay home for two weeks. That turned into another two weeks. Then another month? I walk around the neighborhood to see signs on businesses I frequent. I love my neighborhood. The border of Bushwick and Ridgewood, but basically Bushwick, I tell anyone who will listen. Between the L and the M, a little bit of a hike to the J if you’re ambitious, I also say. Some businesses are open, some are closed, some have different, shorter hours. I walk and see hearts, rainbows, teddy bears in windows. Signs thanking delivery drivers and essential workers make my eyes water. This is the New York I love. 

I felt guilty and scared leaving New York. I struggled with the idea of leaving for a week and even when I decided to leave I was uneasy about the decision again. I left behind so many friends whose hometowns weren’t as close as mine, my sister easily picked me up. What if I’m an asymptomatic carrier since I’ve already shown symptoms just a few weeks earlier? My mom works in a doctor’s office, what if I passed it on to her? The questions running through my head never ended. 

I convinced myself I was going on a two-week writer’s retreat and my sister promised she would bring me back soon. I knew I wasn’t going to go back anytime soon. 

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Quarantine has me recollecting the most random of memories. A weekend in New Jersey, someone causing a scene on the subway, that one bar that reminds me of New Orleans with friends on a Wednesday. Doing cannonballs in the pool, walks around the neighborhood aimlessly, getting coffee and being late to work, my favorite songs from 2010. 

Sweet, nostalgic memories that I cherish even more than I did before. 

Night after night, I find myself looking at the 15,000 photos on my phone (yikes - how can I hoard so many memories?). April is always the start of the summer for me (as half my friends and I are Aries) but here I am, mid-April, and the most exciting thing I’ve done is have a photoshoot with my dog and try a new recipe. 

Three years ago todayish, my senior year of college, I went to four baseball games in three weeks. My club won the “Best Picture” of our college’s annual awards ceremony and I shotgunned beers with the boys. My 22nd birthday was on Marathon Monday and I walked around with a shirt that said, “I am day drunk, good sir.”

Two years ago todayish, I was getting ready to move to New York and started a new job. A year agoish, I went to basketball games, celebrated every Aries I know, visited museums, saw a Broadway show, attended my cousin’s wedding.

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Fow a week I didn’t know what to do. I read a book. Watched a movie I didn’t even pay attention to. Watched another movie. Started a puzzle we all knew I wouldn’t finish. After 30ish days, I have found some sort of routine. My “new normal.”

I make my bed, drink coffee, play with the dog, read. I try to only watch movies at night. Plan a new activity for the day. I stole a small pair of small hoops from my mom’s jewelry drawer to feel some sort of empowerment and normalcy (I miss my jewelry and plants the most!!!). I leave my phone in another room and even find myself communicating less. The same three friends and I rotate texting each other “How are you, really?”

It’s been hard to sleep. And if you know me, you know I can fall asleep almost anywhere. House parties, a loud subway car, seven seconds into a movie, someone’s shoulder. Bed by 10, sleeping by 11, the latest. Maybe it’s because I’ve been overworked since I was 18 years old that I could fall asleep in an instant and I’ve finally caught up on sleep. Maybe it’s the worry and the uncertainty. 

And I really feel fine. Despite the impending doom of having to pay rent for an apartment I’m not currently living at again with no type of income, I am...fine. 

I feel different than I did 30 days ago. I’m no longer as sad or anxious. I still feel sad thinking about my city and my friends I left there. Maybe I shouldn’t avoid the news. I even joke that my major in college was literally “current events.”

I am a positive person. I always try to make the best of a situation. [Hence “the writer’s retreat” angle I kept trying to sell myself.] I read, I write, I watch something (I hate binge-watching TV but I became obsessed with Schitt’s Creek), spend time with my sister. We avoid going to bed and tell hilarious stories until we can’t breathe from laughing too hard. My mental health is protected. I am...grateful. 

What we have deemed as essential employees (and of course they are!) are choosing between their health and a paycheck. Health care professionals are putting their lives on the line and anyone else in their house to save others while the rest of us are told to stay home. I am grateful. And here I am, perfectly safe in the suburbs, thinking about my sister’s college graduation or when I’ll be able to start my summer. 

But can’t I be sad? Can’t I miss my nights with my friends and the basement of a pizzeria I’m supposed to call my office? Can’t I acknowledge the horror and suffering this crisis has brought to the world while still allowing myself to grieve what I’ve lost? My time, the weekend trips I go on every summer, concerts that make me happy, the start of a new job that I only spent two weeks at.

I think about the last concert I attended, the last movie I saw in theatres, the last trip I went on, the last time I danced and sang in the kitchen with someone I love who’s far away from me now. I’m grateful for those memories I can hold onto right now.
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I sleep on a pull-out couch-bed in a bedroom that once belonged to me. A room where the walls were wallpapered with posters of Lana Del Rey, Led Zeppelin and Jim Morrison. A TV in my bedroom for the first time in my life is a weird perk. The bright yellow walls are now a mauvey-beige and some of the only decor in the room is a portrait of my dog (my friend painted it for my mom!) and random pictures of family. This is my normal for now.

Happiness, disaster and living through it

At almost 25 years of age, I can’t even begin to count (or remember) the number of terrorist attacks, natural disasters and scandals (or even celebrations, let’s stay positive!!!) I’ve seen throughout my quarter of a century. It’s statistically impossible for anyone alive to not have experienced a life-changing event. With Coronavirus taking over the country and this world, I can’t help but reflect on the past tragedies I’ve lived through and how it affected me.  

In September 2001, one of my very first memories was my mom putting a cutout from the newspaper of the American flag in the window to honor lives lost during 9/11. I was six and a half. 

In December 2004, I’m home from school for Christmas break and I witness what I now know to be my first natural disaster. A tsunami in Indonesia - not knowing what a tsunami is or where Indonesia is, I obsessively watch the news with my parents. Hurricane Katrina happens 8 months later in New Orleans, LA. Natural disasters are sad to witness and I vow to take care of this planet. 

In January 2009, in eighth grade English we watched the inauguration of Barack Obama and it's something I'll never forget. Our teacher wheeled in a TV strapped on a cart for the occasion and we watched history happen before our eyes.

In February 2012, Trayvon Martin is shot and killed for wearing a hooded sweatshirt. His killer wasn’t charged at the time. We are the same age. He should have graduated high school the following year with me. The next summer, I’m 18 and just graduated high school and I work at the doctor’s office where my mom works. A patient makes an ill-informed joke about having his hood up. My mom has to calm me down and tells me not to yell at this ignorant man. 

In April 2013, I almost could not commit to my college in Boston because of the Boston bombing aftermath. They were able to find those responsible and I was able to visit the city literally 11 days after the attack. I can’t imagine not having those five years in Boston, a city I can credit to some of my best memories and experiences. Those experiences and friendships still have an impact on me today. 

In March 2014, I’m at my aunt’s house for my first spring break in college and we’re watching the news on the missing Malyasian Airlines Flight. There’s no immediate information for days. 

In June 2016, I woke up to countless notifications on my phone about a mass shooting in Orlando, FL., that killed 49 people and injured another 53 inside of a gay nightclub, Pulse. I’m living with my gay friend who I’ve known since sixth grade.

In November 2016, I stayed up (for part of the night) to watch the results of the presidential election. My friend who I lived with knocked on my door at 2:45 a.m., told me the results and I slammed the door in his face. I cried myself to sleep. 

In March 2020, I live in Queens, New York. I’ve had a great two years in the greatest city in the world but then I’m told to stay home if I can. Thankfully I am capable. It all happens so fast. I can do some work from home but normally I would hate working from home and spending so much time stationary. I haven’t cried this much since that presidential election. I haven’t been this scared since. What will I do? I’m genuinely sad and hopeless. I have two jobs. One is working in the office of a restaurant management group and one is a retail job. Both could easily let me go and put my income on pause. 

We have one last hurrah on Friday night at one of my favorite cocktail bars. I love this bar because it reminds me of New Orleans, I tell everyone. If this world ends, I am so happy I got to see New Orleans, one of my favorite cities in this dysfunctional country. I tell my friends about how my grandma snuck out of the house to buy wine. They applaud their hero (my grandma) and I laugh telling them how I had to tell The Boss (my aunt). 

The problem with being upset over these horrific events is that they tend to blur together. I had to Google Alton Sterling because I couldn't remember if he was from Baton Rouge or if that was Philando Castile. When did the Ferguson rallies happen? When were the tragic storms in Texas? It’s easy to work myself up over these natural disasters, tragedies when there’s so little I can do. What can I do now with COVID-19 going around? The least I can do is stay home (most of the time) and keep myself busy and occupied and healthy. I’m sad though, I’m not a ~stay at home and do nothing~ type person. I am active and social and thrive off being with friends (most of the time). I am scared to see what this “quarantine” will do for my mental health, my finances and my relationships. To be alone all day...with my thoughts. The virus is affecting me without entering my immune system. It’s hard for me to stay home this long, to not talk to people and it all makes me sad. How can I survive this? I asked my friends for their self-care tips but that only lasts for a day. I’m not used to having this much time off, there’s only so much “self-care” I can stretch over a month. 

I’ve survived everything above...and so much more. Much worse, much better things I have survived and more to come. I am anxious to see how we’ll (and me personally) will get through this. What will we lose in the meantime? 

I wanted to go to Italy and France this year...two of the worst infected places. My 25th birthday is in one month and I wanted to have a 90s-themed party (I was debating either dressing up as Eddie Vedder or Tupac). Will that happen? How will I celebrate my milestone? With the weather getting nicer and warmer, how will I be able to stand being inside? How will I see my little sister graduate college? 

It's normal for happiness to fluctuate. Throughout the month. Throughout the week, even the day. It's better to feel a range of emotions than nothing at all. I've allowed stress and anxiety to eat me alive and I'm trying to avoid that now. I'm learning that the amount of things that make me happy will always outweigh the amount of things that make me unhappy. Vinyl records, the Instagram discover page, writing, learning, singing in the car, leather mini skirts will always outweigh the negatives of life.