I am grappling with feeling that my new apartment isn’t mine. It doesn’t feel like my home yet. I had a dream last night, the details are about as clear as muddy water at best, but it revolved around the fact that the apartment was not yet mine because it had stuff in it that did not belong to me. The apartment does indeed have stuff in it that was left by the previous tenant and, according to her, the tenants prior to her. Last night I took down the paper lantern covering the light fixture in the bedroom. I don’t dislike it, but it makes the light so dim it feels pointless to even turn the light on and, given the choice, it is not what I would have chosen to put up. It is the little things, like taking down a lighting fixture I did not put up, unpacking the last cardboard box filled with my things, cooking a meal in the kitchen, arranging one of my bookshelves, putting up my pictures that make the apartment feel more like mine, more like home.
There is a piece of me that has been content with not unpacking the remaining boxes in the living room, not fully arranging my office/writing room, leaving remnants of the previous tenants out and about regardless of my own tastes. These things made it easier to feel like this is not my home. Making this space mine means fully embracing my new home, my new neighborhood, my new borough. I am not quite there yet, but as I inch closer to it I find a tremendous amount of fear rising within me.
I know moving is one of life’s major stressors, I also know that change and I are not quite bosom buddies. I wanted this move, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. There is a lot to love about my new space, my new neighborhood, and my new borough. I have not given myself time to fully explore any of the things I just might fall in love with in my new surroundings.