Maybe that’s what New York has done for me all these years; It makes me small. Each day I grow into the bubble of my egocentricity, and each night, I’m punctured and deflated again, relieved.
I will find my way through the invisible door, not because I’m strong, or brave, but because I’ll have to. I’m not sure how, and I believe that’s the scary part, the part that cramps my stomach, brings me tears on the subway train in the morning. Maybe someone will have to carry me, like my husband, kicking and screaming.
But here is my secret: I am a liar too. Or I was, for much of my life. I remember the moment when I realized that I had a hand in what type of reality another would live by. That I could carve out my own secret nook beneath others’ expectations and exist in that delicious, sovereign space.