I woke up this morning, naked, sprawled and tangled in soft sheets, my lower left arm wrapped in plastic and bandages, morning light muted through pulldown shades in the Hudson Valley town of Beacon, NY.

None of this was unexpected, but the solidness of my sleep was. My bandaged arm was from the most hours of tattooing I’ve ever had in a single session the day before — my reason for being here. I collapsed into bed after shedding my clothes with exhaustion from the day, which started bleary eyed early from the East Village, to Grand Central, and to Beacon.

Walking around this morning with a coffee in hand, I realized this must be the scene in the trope I’ve casually consumed of the “city girl goes to small town and romance ensues” - a few blocks walking on the main drag, though and the illusion is punctured by a kratom and smoke shop, a few police officers standing idly by, and a perfectly serviceable and ordinary grocery store.

I spent my day in NYC a couple days ago, catching up with friends and attempting to check in with my Minnesota based coworker who is halfway into his six week adventure in the city. He had already gone for the day, but I was able to catch up with another coworker (Aside: I might add he has a daunting level of cool, so when he asked me if I had gotten a tan, not admitting I had put on some glow lotion that morning, I said to him, “no, I’m just that bitch.” He blinked. Why is humaning so awkward?)

He told me my MN coworker was doing well, “he’s finding you can be a different person,” yes, yes I thought to myself, “but also that it’s a temporary state.” Yes, my heart screamed at me, as I know I had been hoping what I knew to be true was not true for me if I sunk into my New York persona of sensation seeking — lights, heat, sweat, sex, smell, sounds — in hopes of liberation.

This morning I woke up, desiring to linger in the soft cradle of pillows until I fell asleep again, but instead I was greeted by an echo inside, “you have to hold on to yourself,” imperative. After years of trying to teach others how to hold me, by holding them, I have to learn to cast that love inside.

I turned over the previous day in my mind, and standing statues in my memory were my three siblings-in-law (though what is the term, if legally death has dissolved that denotation?) They came to visit for a dinner break during my tattoo session. They drove an hour just to see me, for a brief meal, a gesture speaking louder than any words we shared. I’m glad I didn’t have to answer the question, “but how are you really doing?” I couldn’t have answered better than just asking one of them if they wanted to know about the tattoo I was getting.

This morning I wanted to wake up in the fantasy of “what if we moved to Beacon, having a life completely different,” and instead got a five minute crying jag that my conscious mind was fighting against. My body was crying. Below my consciousness, grief had no submission to foreign and trigger-free settings.

Apple Maps says the local artisanal dispensary doesn’t open til past my appointment start..

When will this stop? Or at least get better?

All it gets is different. Shifting in color, tone, desire. Seeing myself different in the mirror, in the black and white of a digital page.

I hope to be able to catch the last direct train to Grand Central at the end of my tattoo session today. I should have booked another night, but frugality and hoping for a last minute option have gotten in the way (not that I won’t try the place next to the tattoo studio in case of a vacancy.) Tomorrow, I treat myself to Rocky Horror, maybe catch up with some other friends in Brooklyn, and Sunday I head home.

I’m still waiting on that threshold moment, but just as I need to hold myself, maybe finding that is also within me?