Living alone for the first time

The first apart­ment that was my very own was the first and only one I looked at. It had been months since the ex and I split up and I hated my three hour com­mute for work so I decided to move downtown.

I asked around at work to see if any­one knew of any vacan­cies and I was told of a bach­e­lor suite down by the park. I made arrange­ments to go see it one day after work.

I walked down towards what would become my new neigh­bour­hood and I was impressed to see all that there was to do nearby. Not that I planned to do any­thing, mop­ing around feel­ing sorry for myself was tak­ing all my free time.

I buzzed the man­ager and he took me up to take a look. It was on the 6th floor and it faced the alley. It was vacant and the land­lord was paint­ing it It was 600 square feet and it would be all mine. I said I’d think about it and rushed away to make my train home.

I had vague ideas about view­ing other apart­ments but I fell in love with the neigh­bour­hood and I was too lazy to search for other places to view so I called and said I’d take it.

Just a few short weeks later I was rush­ing around pack­ing as the movers showed up to load my stuff. My par­ents and the movers helped me get all my stuff loaded onto the truck and my dad and I drove down ahead of the movers to secure the ele­va­tor in my new building.

It was Octo­ber 30, I was 30 and I was finally mov­ing into my own apart­ment. I’d lived with my ex for years and I’d moved straight from my par­ents house into what was our house. I’d never lived on my own save for the few months hous­esit­ting I’d done. It felt free­ing and terrifying.

I remem­ber that I loved not hav­ing to con­sider any­one elses feel­ing. I could come and go as I please. I didn’t have to explain my pur­chases to any­one. I missed hav­ing some­one to come home to and it freaked me out that some­thing could hap­pen to me and pos­si­bly no one would notice.

Mov­ing into the city where I didn’t really know any­one want daunt­ing at all. I fig­ured I’d get to know my neigh­bours and explore my neigh­bour­hood. The neigh­bours were a bust. The gay cou­ple across the hall wanted noth­ing to do with a sad sin­gle girl. The gay man next door to me was too busy to talk and the girl at the end of the hall had a life. If I hadn’t been so depressed I’d have started to sec­ond guess the idea of mov­ing downtown.

I drew deeper and deeper into myself and then sum­mer finally came. On the week­ends i’d head down to the beach and lay on the grass under a tree read­ing and peo­ple watch­ing. I loved my neigh­bour­hood. I even­tu­ally got out of the house every­day and even found myself enjoy­ing myself when I was out. Look­ing back I think it is so sad that I spent such a long time so miserable.

I lived in that apart­ment for almost three years. I met the man that would become my hus­band and ended up mov­ing in with him. I kept that apart­ment for three months after I started liv­ing with him. It was my safety net. My haven. He finally con­vinced me to get rid of it and stop pay­ing rent for an apart­ment I wasn’t using. I look back on the apart­ment with bit­ter­sweet fond­ness. I liked liv­ing there but really I think it was more a mat­ter of sur­viv­ing rather than living.

That is the sad story of my first apart­ment. What was your first place like?

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