The Summer of Start. Stop. Delete. Start.

Nearly every day I write an imaginary blog. For months I have written, considered, edited, deleted. It’s frustrating. My imaginary blogs are excellent, then, when I make them real, not so excellent. I draw. I see my therapist. I putter about. I am working on a series of drawings almost no one has seen. They

Another World.

For two months I was in a mansion being housed and fed. The mansion houses women with eating disorders. Packing clothes for an amount of time I didn’t know, for a change of season, for an expanding body, didn’t help me accept what I was doing. I was in disbelief on the drive with my

The Retirement Party

There wasn’t a party. I thought my last day would be April 6, 2020. The early times of the pandemic. I kept changing it because the world was changing. Cleaning, then plexiglass, then doors shut to the public. I stayed until May 31, 2020, working mostly alone in an empty building. My last e-mail to

Harold, a New York Story

Out.

I am one of around 43 million people in the United States who live with mental illness. I am not ready to name mine, because it is so misunderstood and I don’t have the strength right now to explain all the facts and myths. You’d think, with all the people out there who share this

Multitasking

I think everyone has days or hours where you have to make calls and go through prompts spoken by machine leading you to more prompts until you get a human. I had to call a bank, or a calling center for a bank, to close a savings account which contained $27.01. To be more specific,

Snowy Night in New York City.

During a visit to see my mother in Brooklyn, I went out to see art work, which many of you know is a difficult decision. Snow began to fall in the afternoon. I went to see the Drawings of James Siena first. There was construction in the tunnels. I had to take a train, and

To See or Not to See

Too see or not to see. To seek help or soldier on, chin up, through this deep groove in my life. That is the question. I have waffled for months, trying to decide whether or not to go back to my therapist. I adore my therapist, but that isn’t a good reason to see him.