Last week I closed the door on my temporary apartment for the last time. It was the apartment I moved into barely a week after getting out of the mental hospital, only two weeks after trying to kill myself. My lease was up, and my ex had moved out of the house I owned, so it was time to leave my temporary home behind.
As I have been wont to do recently, I went back and read the post I wrote a year ago when I moved out. Once again, I am struck by how little I recognize the angry, bitter man in those posts. I was still struggling to shed the old me, the identity I’d crafted for myself over all those years of repression, and he was still raging against the dying of the light, so to speak. I’m so glad that’s all over with!
I went through a lot in that apartment. It was like moving into a blank slate: I hadn’t had a home alone ever — I went straight from college roommates to married life — and on top of that I was moving into the apartment at time when I wasn’t even sure what it meant to be me. In the past year I have divested myself of old, bad habits; I have reforged my relationship with my kids into something stronger and deeper; and I have discovered my new self. Even though I cleaned before I left, I’m leaving a lot of things behind in that place.
Unfortunately, moving back into the house has meant confronting some of the still-lingering parts of my old life. If nothing else, just being back in this space has been stirring up some bad memories and old instincts I’d have much preferred to forget completely. There’s been moments of stress and more than a few tears in the past week or so. But I’m a stronger person now and I’ve pushed through them with a little help from my friends (and beer).
There’s one thing I will miss from the apartment though: closet space! I’m coming back to the house with a much larger wardrobe than I left with, and that apartment had a really nice closet. Ah, well — time to purge a bit, I guess!