It’s exactly the kind of thing he expected when I told him I was moving to Manhattan for school. That the city wouldsomehow swallow me whole, be too fast-paced for me to handle, or worse .?.?. I would get hurt.
Mom and Dad didn’t mind so much since they were both hoping I’d follow in Wesley’s footsteps and “go away for school.”
And sure, I did drop out more than three quarters of the way into my degree. But I had my reasons.
I’m not meant to be a therapist.
That little fact became clear to me when I went to therapy and saw it for what it really is.
A sham. A dumb, stupid tactic to get people to talk for as long as they need to without ever giving them a real answer.
Without ever healing them. I want no part in it.
A world of art instead .?.?. just soundedright. Still does .?.?. I think.
I only hesitate because it’s not easy making steady income as an artist.
But hey, at least I’m in the right city for it. With its world-class museums, vibrant street scene, and endless diversity, the sky’s my limit here—even if my brother does hate the idea of me making it my permanent residence. All so I can pursue a career that is impulsive, risky, and my personal favorite—notpractical.
Even in middle school, when all the other girls joined drama club or tried out for cheerleading, I was sneaking into metal and woodworking class to see if I could weld something without setting my hair on fire.
My parents never complained about my choices. They want me to be happy. It’s always been my brother whose protective nature warns me that my free-spirited lifestyle will catch up with me.
In the form of bills, responsibilities, and reality checks.
He didn’t laugh when I replied with,I’dprobablybouncethatrealitycheck.
Truthfully? I’m not laughing either. In many ways, I knowhe’s right. But I’m not ready to tell him that yet.
“Wes, I told you, I’m doingfiiine.” I stretch the word I desperately need him to believe. Even if I don’t believe it myself. “And did I mention? I don’t need you covering my rent this month. I’ve totally got it. Actually, I think I’ve got next month too. The tips at the bar have been—”
“Really? You’re fine? And how long until I hear you quit or got fired because your boss was ‘toxic’?”
“It’s Manhattan,” I shout back. “Toxic bosses are a package deal, bro.” I try to sound like I love the city vibe. And I think I’m pulling it off. Because I did love it here for a while. What’s not to love? It’s got everything you could want.
We’re from a small town in South Carolina. And as much as I loved it, I wanted to explore a broader life—it’s why I applied for every scholarship under the sun for NYU. I was meant for New York vibes, not small-town charm.
Not that it did me any good.
After “the accident”—which is how I refer to it as I refuse to call it what my therapist did, “the incident”—I’ve been living in fear of living in fear.
So I do things impulsively, bravely, and spontaneously. Art is spontaneous. Art heals.
With art, you can’t lie to someone and tell them it’s going to be OK.
But no .?.?. art didn’t solve my problem either. Because I’m still restless some nights.
I try not to be a cliché.
I try not to let my fears control me.
So those nights when I’m restless .?.?. I’mreckless.Desperate to prove that I can handle myself. I’m not scared. I’m notscarred.
How reckless, you ask?
Well, a few weeks ago, I started talking to a fellow artist at thePainter’s Room, a place downtown where new artists showcase their work. Mine are usually watercolor or charcoal. His are photography.Nudephotography.
He showcases them in silhouettes, and for a moment, I was drawn to them. They were so .?.?. tasteful and sexy, I just had to ask about it. How he makes everything around them so colorful and brilliant, and you can almost see the woman’s mood.
