Early & Alone #51: Forever Home
Today marks eight months since I moved from Boston to Providence. My apartment is huge and light-filled, with white brick walls, tall windows, and high ceilings. There’s central air, an in-unit washer/dryer, a dishwasher, and parking. I have two bathrooms. And yet...it’s not home. My lease is up in September and I’m looking for a new apartment in Providence where Gizmo and I can settle in for a little while.
I knew when I moved that this might not be the right place for me. It was an experiment. It’s a little more expensive than I’d like to be paying, and the location isn’t ideal. More than that, it’s LOUD. There’s an office in the space below me and a couple with a dog and a baby above me. The office is full of loud men who are on speaker phone for nine hours a day, six days a week. The couple upstairs fights and yells and vacuums and moves furniture on a constant schedule. And for whatever reason, the acoustics in this old mill make it so that I can hear nearly every word my neighbors are saying, every song they’re listening to. As someone who is highly sensitive to noise and works from home, this living situation has made me feel like I’m slowly losing my mind.
In my adult life, I’ve only lived in four apartments before this one. I’ve been spared the annual drama of moving that many of my peers have lived with due to rising rents, rotations of roommates, moves for jobs or partners, and all of the other reasons my generation is peripatetic. I loved my first apartment in Boston--my bedroom was round, with a built-in shelf that curved around the walls, and a door to the bathroom. There was in-unit laundry there, too, and the subway was just outside (yes, it was the Green Line, but I was young and didn’t know any better). There was a kind of weird in-between year in Somerville, living in an attic apartment that was stifling in summer and arctic in winter, but in a great location. And then there was Brooklyn, that third floor apartment in a brownstone with teal kitchen cabinets and brick walls in a perfect neighborhood.
After that, I was lucky enough to find what I called the “unicorn apartment” in Jamaica Plain. It had parking and laundry in the basement and was right on the main drag, everything you could need within walking distance. I had my own bathroom, a huge closet, and a lovely bedroom with space for my desk. We also had a spare bedroom and a front porch, shaded by trees in summer. Jamaica Pond was five minutes away, the Arboretum 15 minutes. It took a few years to get fully acclimated, but I ended up living there for nearly seven years, dreading the day I would need to leave.
With roommates and landlords and uncertain jobs, relationships, etc., there’s always the day you will need to leave. And though I loved that apartment perhaps more than any other place I’ve ever lived, I knew that day would come. Which is why it was a shock, even to myself, when I made the decision to leave on nearly a whim. Part of it was that I was making the decision myself, rather than facing a situation where I was being told to leave or had to leave. But the pandemic made me realize that I wanted to try living alone, finally, and I wanted to try living closer to my family.
Finding an apartment proved more difficult than I thought it would be. And now, nearly a year later, I’m finding it hasn’t gotten any easier. It’s early to be looking for an apartment for September, but I like to be prepared. So I started checking rental sites in April, just to get an idea of other neighborhoods and possibilities. There was….nothing. So I started to panic.
In the last few weeks, I’ve checked listings nearly daily, set up email notifications, and done research trying to figure out which property management companies work with apartments and aren’t predatory slum lords. I’ve seen a couple of truly abysmal places and have gotten excited by others, only to be told they don’t allow dogs or another person had put down a deposit without even seeing the apartment first.
More than anything, I am learning my brain operates on a strict scarcity mindset. I am internally freaking out because my anxiety is telling me I should just grab whatever I can, because something else might not come up. Meanwhile, I have a full four months before my lease is up. The market is very bad (for buyers and renters) but surely that doesn’t mean I won’t find a good place to live. I try to take deep breaths after every disappointment and remind myself that something will come along. And that the worst case scenario is that I stay in this gorgeous, light-filled loft apartment with in-unit laundry and central air for a little while longer. Not exactly a disaster. I am very lucky.
But a few weeks ago, I spiralled a little, thinking about how fucked it is that I’m 39 years old, with a decent job, and I essentially don’t have a home. I have a place to live, and I have people I can stay with. I am incredibly fortunate that I have those things! But it’s not the same as having a home, someplace where you feel safe and secure and happy.
When we adopt animals, we use the language “forever home.” But I don’t think that exists. Not for animals (since their companions are always moving) and not for us. I’m not sure I think having a forever home is even necessarily what I’m looking for or what makes sense for most people. But it would be nice if our systems provided opportunities for more people to create homes for themselves where they were able not to worry about making rent or getting evicted or wondering whether they’d be able to get a dog or have a child or hear themselves think when trying to work or write.
Anyway, I fully realize how privileged it is to complain about this while others are having bombs dropped on their homes right now. At the same time, I know I’m not alone, and I don’t see it getting any easier for people as time goes on. But I will keep taking deep breaths and hoping for the best.
Bright Spots
I’m a huge Lindy West fan, and I have really loved the Hulu adaptation of her essay collection, Shrill. It’s funny and sweet and weird and the actors are great. Aidy Bryant is perfect and the show has introduced me to Lolly Adefope and Ian Owens. I devoured the final season last weekend and recommend.
If you like pop culture and podcasts, you’re probably already listening to NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour. They do brief daily breakdowns of the newest TV shows, movies, music, and books and I feel like I can weed out a lot of the buzz because I trust their opinions. They recently did a series on the Best Muppets and it’s worth your time.
It’s starting to feel like summer and so I’m trying really hard to remember to put sunscreen on every day before I walk Gizmo! Purchasing Super Goop’s Unseen Sunscreen has helped--it’s sooo lightweight, it instantly disappears as soon as you put it on!
I’ve been lusting after a velvet green couch for a long while now, but I hesitated to pull the trigger because buying a couch is expensive and complicated. But Wayfair was having a big sale about a month ago, and a couch I liked was half off, so I just...bought it! And now I have a velvet green couch and it’s lovely and doesn’t make me feel 94 years old every time I sit down (my old couch was verrrryyy low to the ground).
Enjoy the sunshine, friends!
