A couple of nights ago I took a long hard look at my apartment. It is furnished with many items that L and I chose together along with some antiques from my parents’ home and one or two items I have added over the last three years. In short it feels like home. But what I realized as I wandered the space is that I continue to arrange and use the rooms as if I am still living the life I lived before L died. The truth is that my life has changed in significant ways–I am alone for starters. There is no one to please with how things look or are stored but myself. There is (rarely) no one else who might need space for his or her things. Oh, there may come a time when I have an overnight guest, but that is unlikely in a one bed/one bath place that has to count the closet to hit a thousand square feet.
No, this is no longer a place I share, and that realization hit me hard on a number of levels–some painful, but some more hopeful. On the hopeful side of things, I guess I felt as if coming to this understanding of the living situation was progress. Last night I spent 2-3 hours moving things around–not furniture so much as the stuff I had stored away. Out of sight, out of mind is remarkably accurate. As I went through drawers and boxes placed high on closet shelves, I came across things that are important to me–the tools for hobbies I looked forward to pursuing “some day;” mementos that had special meaning for me if not L because they are from the life I led before I met him; papers and documents in need of shredding or attending or filing….
Today the apartment feels more like home than ever. L never lived here and so I do not suffer the potential ‘guilt’ of displacing him or the stuff of his life. The truth is that it feels as if he’s up there somewhere releasing a sigh of sheer relief and whispering…”Finally.”