I am surrounded by boxes.
And suitcases.
And bags.
And all the little random bits of paper, cardboard, styrofoam, and god-knows-whatever-else that seem to end up in the carpet while packing things up and shuffling them around.
It is the season of Leaving – and it has blown in like a western storm.
Kicking up all kinds of dust.
Ripping roots right up and out of the earth.
I moved into this apartment almost exactly two years ago to the day – squeezed it in somehow between what, at the time, were long and overwhelming days of work, in a position I was recently promoted to – and loved – but, was still very much getting the hang of.
I was not quite legally divorced yet, not quite sure how to navigate the relationship that followed, not quite sure how to process being back in my hometown, not quite sure of what I wanted to do next… not quite sure of one damn thing.
Then, I found this place.
And suddenly I was sure that I wanted it.
Although, I admit, it was the first and only place that even got a visit. It had high ceilings, a walk in closet, and an enormous bathroom mirror. It was also only 10 minutes from my work, in a safe and quiet area – and for whatever reason, they were running a special signing bonus that came with a free 55″ TV… so that kind of settled that.
Rarely, if ever, have I known life to let you choose the perfect specifications and dimensions for a landing pad/recovery room/sanctuary – they tend to appear without warning, right on the spot. As if the universe literally hands it to you, like leftover fries it doesn’t have room for.
“You want? Or nah?”
I have learned there is only one correct answer (just like with fries): Yes.
It was a lot of fucking work though – free TV notwithstanding.
For reasons we’ll skip for now, the first year here was kind of… miserable? I didn’t usually want to come home. Or, I’d be too nervous to leave, for fear of what I might come home to later. The high ceilings didn’t feel high enough anymore – it felt like a claustrophobic, suffocating cage. And no matter how quiet the area, I couldn’t get my nervous system to rest.
Not ever.
Year one taught me a lot about both what I could handle, and what my limits were – the stuff I could and could not tolerate, and the lesson of “just because I can, just because I am willing to, doesn’t mean I should have to“
Then… after a tornado…
The pressure released.
The air changed.
The vacuum created once the chaos dispersed, was almost instantly replaced with calm.
“Well now… do you remember now? This is how it‘s supposed to feel.”
Which is how year two became so much softer.
But, did it ever feel like home here?
I mean, no?
Not home home.
But it did become a lot of other things.
It became the place I fussed over constantly – checking stove dials, locks, outlets, and windows with almost embarrassing regularity.
It became the place where I’d flit from task to task with music, or a podcast playing and a million thoughts in my head.
It became the place I scrambled to leave on time for work after trying on countless different outfit combinations.
The place I’d rest.
The place I’d write.
The place I’d let laundry pile up (but eventually handle).
The place I’d nap.
The place I’d work out.
The place I’d have solo dance parties.
The place I’d try recipes.
The place I’d curl up with my cats.
It became the place where I fell (back?) in love with my favorite person.
The place I’d have weekly long distance date nights.
The place I’d collapse after a long day.
The place I couldn’t wait to get back to.
And eventually-
It did become a landing pad. A recovery room. A sanctuary.
And as it turns out, a place I feel a little emotional about leaving.
Which, brings me back to the boxes.
This week will be my last full one in this apartment.
Two years have come and gone.
The last time I moved out of a place completely by myself, it was 11 years ago-
Ironically, in Vancouver.
It’s been what feels like multiple lifetimes since then. The circumstances this time could not begin to be more different, and yet –
Both then and now share one striking similarity.
Each time and place was a metamorphosis.
It’s own little self-contained cocoon of transformation.
In fact, in some ways? This one almost feels like it picked up where I had left off – a re-reckoning with who I am… and all the things I want for myself.
And that’s why I’m leaving.
That’s how I know it’s time.
I have a lot of becoming left – so much so, that I suspect I may never be fully finished. It will likely be my life’s work – to grow myself into the person I am still learning to recognize and aspire to. I’ll be honest, there are more days than I’d like where it feels similar to dumping sea monkeys into a bowl of water and hoping for the best.
But, every now and then-
It becomes undeniable to me that I am, in fact, on the right path.
11 years ago, much like the present, I was avoiding packing.
So, (much like the present) I sat down and wrote something – a letter to my apartment.
I posted it on a blog that’s no longer around. (Maybe I’ll pop it in over here someday. I dunno.)
But I pulled it up to read, as I sat down to write this.
I called the post-
“Packing: A Love-Letter to My Apartment”
And, yanno what?
I’m gonna finish this now, the same way I did back then.
I can’t think of anything else I need to add.
As I pack my things, and I leave you empty… please know that I am leaving more full than I could have ever imagined a year ago. I hope wholeheartedly that whomever takes my place realizes how fortunate they are to live somewhere that has seen so much love, and stood witness to so much change for the better.
Thank you for it all.
Cheers and love,
MV
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