My daughter’s medical diagnosis was like getting kicked in the head by a horse.
For four years I was consumed in medical hell as I managed the endless doctors’ appointments, hospitalizations and tests. The added stress of a custody battle and my parents’ deaths had me back in therapy, sipping Pinot Grigio for dinner.
“You’re just having bad luck,” a doctor once said to me over a bed in a crowded Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.
No joke. I just signed papers for an emergency blood transfusion.
When I finally re-entered the Manhattan dating scene in 2009, I was a hopeful romantic looking to escape. More so, not think. Having an open border dating policy helped numb the pain, but created a nastier version of Sex in the City.
The lessons in love came fast and furious. Finance guys, I soon found, while impressive with their Wharton degrees and money, favored expensive, trendy restaurants and prone to frat boy antics. While the unconventional ones, like playwrights and street artists, were always fun and charming, yet often didn’t have money to cover the tab.
Stephen. Jeffrey. Thomas. Regardless, dates typically followed a pattern of a lot of pre-game excitement followed by some sort of sexual misconduct and me escaping Manhattan style – on a train or in a cab.
“You gotta blog about this stuff. No one would believe it,” a friend said upon hearing how a corporate bigwig suggested I be tied up.
And that I did. For 2 ½ years.
Blogging, while therapeutic, kept me in the spin cycle and constantly reliving the bad experiences. I became the single woman’s version of the Vietnam Viet with my flashbacks of bad dates. I eventually realized as colorful and funny as some of the stories were they’re all basically the same.
I panicked at the thought of being tied up. But isn’t the retelling of my encounters with the underbelly of Manhattan keeping me bound to the past?
I’ve told these stories and am now moving on. I’m shifting my focus.