I Need A Nap

It's my house and I live here.

I was 24 when I moved into my first apartment. It was a rent controlled studio apartment in Highland Park and I lived there for almost 10 years. I moved in right after my mom passed away. It was my first time living alone and it was the first time I dealt with an immense amount of grief. It was isolating, but also liberating. That apartment meant so much to me, and it was reflected in the home I created there. It was my safe haven. It held me through many heartbreaks. It was also a place I found my independence. It was an extension of me and that was evident the minute you stepped through the doorway.

If you were ever lucky enough to visit my home, you had to walk up the large stained, carpeted staircase to the second floor. I’m almost certain there was a portal on the landing because no matter who you were, what age you were, or how fit you were, you were out of breath and drained by the time you made it to the second floor. The landing was always filled with pigeons and flies. It was weird. But sometimes you gotta get through the muck to reach the end of the rainbow. And that’s what my home felt like. Once you made it up to the second floor (the third floor burned down years ago in a fire, and yes, it is in fact haunted.) You make a right to the end of the dark hallway to apartment 201. But you had to get through my neighbors’ apartments first, like I said, it was weird. The building originally had my corner unit as a 2 bedroom, 2 bathroom apartment, but because the building is run by a slumlord, they broke it up into 3 units, mine being the biggest and at the far end of a shared hallway. It was tiny, dark, and dingy—I shared that with 2 other neighbors. It was creepy, af ngl, but luckily my neighbors were decent people. Anyway! The point of all this is that even though my building was haunted and ghetto, I carved a space for myself that I loved coming home to. It was a little sliver of love to myself.

It was colorful, full of vintage trinkets, and knickknacks I picked up on my many, many travels. It was feminine, airy, bright, filled with the most beautiful natural light and lots, and lots of plants. The windows were always open and my records and books were always covered with a sprinkle of city dust. Beneath my favorite window were a jasmine bush and citrus tree. In the evenings, the jasmine would waft up through my windows. Inhaling its scent was calming and made me feel safe in my haunted, raggedy building.

After moving in with my ex, I held onto the apartment for a few more years and subleased it to a friend. Eventually, they ended up moving out and after 10+ years, I felt like I was finally ready to let it go—or rather, not interested in moving back in there. Packing up my apartment felt confusing. I was definitely at a different stage in my life where I felt I’d outgrown my little box of love. But also, I hadn’t fully accepted that I was in a toxic relationship. I thought we were just experiencing relationship growing pains and we could salvage it. And in doing so, I let a huge part of myself go.