We May Not Sleep
Marco Gomez, a.k.a. DJ False Witness, recounts the highs and lows of his first year in New York City.
Marco Gomez, a.k.a. DJ False Witness, is a familiar face in New York nightlife. At parties, he moves around effortlessly, talking to everyone, with air of someone who has their shit together. But this wasn’t always the case. This month marks Marco Gomez’s first year in NYC. Here, he looks back at his emotionally draining, physically exhausting, and sleepless first year, and shares some survival tips he picked up along the way.
This month is my one year anniversary of living in New York City. For those of you reading who don’t live here (yet), but aspire to reside here at some point, I’ll be honest: it’s fucking hard. I know it’s a cliché to say that, but it is true. Your first year, from day one going forward, will be a hellish ride down an emotional roller coaster that doesn’t have a bottom ... until it does, and the ride is sorta fun from that point on. Or at least tolerable.
For my first week in New York, I stayed in a posh penthouse in the Upper West Side, courtesy of a friend who I no longer stay in contact with. This imbued me with a false sense of security; it led me to believe that somehow, without any kind of struggle, I had ‘made it’. The week after that, I found myself in a sublet in Crown Heights, wondering how I had managed to spend most of my savings during that first week.
The next few months from that point were a series of extreme highs and lows that nearly drove me insane. One day, I was eating some crazy expensive meal for free, the next I had a saltine cracker to last me the day. My friend Jess said the same thing once in an interview; you could be eating a $500 meal one day and a can of tuna the next. Or nothing at all.
I moved here alone, anticipating my boyfriend of four years to join me in a month’s time. He moved his life from the quiet suburban town he knew in Massachusetts to be with me in Brooklyn, but dumped me within a few weeks of being here. I can’t say I didn’t deserve it: my behavior upon his arrival was erratic. I got up at weird hours of the night because I couldn’t stand to be in the same bed with him. I stopped saying I loved him. Fights over nothing became common. He got fed up with my bullshit, and I was fed up with being bullshit all the time. I wasn’t coping well with the stresses of the city, and he couldn’t understand or help me. I felt like he was struggling too, and neither of us were equipped to support each other. We parted ways. I was hurt.