Candela Place 4

A local entrepreneur opened a café on Davie Street just three blocks from my building.  While he was getting the place ready to open I stopped in to inquire about showing my art on his walls.  We hit it off right away, he liked my photos and for the three years he was open from 2004 to 2007 I was the feature artist and curator for guest artists.  It was my first gig as art curator and I have to admit it was lots of fun seeking out and interviewing and encouraging other artists.  It was also great having this place nearby as a local hangout and I soon became friendly with staff and regulars and even sold some art there.

In the meantime I began to flourish: in my job, in my art, in my psychotherapy/mental health recovery, in my Spanish.  Only my social life seemed to suck.  I lost in that same period all that remained of my old friends.  Eventually began the painstaking and painful process of finding new friends and developing from scratch a new social network.  I knew this would take years.  I gritted my teeth and got to work at meeting and befriending.

It eventually paid off but the process took roughly from 2007 to this year 2015 or eight years.  I felt often at loose ends during Christmas and Thanksgiving since no one seemed interested in inviting me anywhere.  I fell into a deep depression that repeated itself every December until this year.  Read my Grinch posts: Hanging Christmas Out To Dry, Gentle Reader, should you desire to refresh your memory.

In 2007 my bank account began to fatten considerably and I was aware that soon I could travel again.  I applied for a new passport and decided to return to Costa Rica, this time to see if it would indeed be a suitable place to live.  I joined a conversation blog for people who lived in or were interested in living in Costa Rica since I had entertained a dream of moving to this beautiful country since my first visit in 1994.

In May 2006 my psychiatrist retired.  He was certain that I was already well-recovered and would no longer be needing therapy.  I actually agreed with him.  Striking out on my own was scary, delicious and exhilarating.  I nearly relapsed on three occasions between July and October: the first setback lasted about a week; the second four days, the third two days.  I was aware of a pattern.  Using the tools that my therapist had given me I was able to put paid to years of life staunching trauma.  I still carried some of the wounds.  Even now I do.  But I am better, decidedly, unabashedly and inarguably better.