Two and 1/2 weeks in and I can safely say that my relationship with my new apartment may just be my most fucked up relationship ever.
I had a little meltdown on Friday. BTW, I really do appreciate the kind notes, tweets, etc. Please understand that when I close the comments, it’s about my need for space. And because I don’t know how I’ll possibly find the words to reply. I’d reached a breaking point.
Then I spent all morning and afternoon on Saturday running around town shopping. Getting everything I needed for my apt. I spent Saturday night putting together furniture and cleaning. Oh, and unpacking.
Then, after lying awake all night, still in a panic/funk about all that needed to be done I got out of bed at the crack of dawn and went through all of my books and clothes again. Then I called goodwill and arranged for them to take A LOT of stuff (plus some furniture).
But there was no place in the city/no charity that could pick it up right away. Or, at least, none that I could find. And I really wanted it all gone. I was in a massive panic/funk about it. Every time I left the apartment for a while I could forget about it. But then I’d come home and start to panic. It was making me completely nuts.
So I called friends (again) and asked for help. And because my friends are awesome, they came and filled their car with my stuff and drove it away. Afterwards, I walked into my apartment and took a deep breath. Because I could. For the first time in weeks. Breathe. I was down to under 5 unpacked boxes and I could actually see the floor. I know there are plenty of people who can’t understand why it upset me so much, to be living with the boxes everywhere. But it was unbearable, for me.
Then I spent some time putting books, pictures and pottery on these fancy shelves that are on the living room wall (they came with the apt). I spent about an hour picking out what I wanted to put there/how I wanted it all organized. I was pretty pleased with myself, thought it looked damn good and almost tweeted a picture (but then thought it was a little too personal/real).
Afterwards, I went out to get some food. I hadn’t eaten all day and realized I needed some fresh air and protein.
A couple of hours later, I came home, looked around my living room and knew immediately that something was wrong. It took me a few minutes but then it hit me. Some of the stuff had fallen off the shelves. Slid off. And broke. Into tiny little shards.
The shelves weren’t hung properly. A careful inspection showed that they’re at a slight angle away from the wall. So anything that’s hung on them will eventually slide off. The fancy picture frames and pottery I’d put up there was so smooth and slippery that it flew right off. Probably right after I left the apartment.
So basically, this apartment is exactly like most of the men I’ve dated. It put on a fabulous show. Everything looked to be in mint condition. High end. Fancy, fancy. But nothing really works right. Most things are kinda broken or need work to make them functional.
But it’s my home now. And I’m committed to making this relationship work. For the long haul, dammit. And yeah, I’ve said the same thing about some pretty lousy relationships with men.
You gotta admit, this is kinda funny. Right?
Tags: apartment, dating dysfunction