It’s half past twelve, after midnight, Monday is here.
I can’t sleep. Typical. Listening to music, I let my thoughts travel far away, to Guatemala, to Shebz, back home, to my sisters and my family, to my brother Andi in London, to last week, to tomorrow, a brand new, busy, exciting week coming up…
I’m feeling nostalgic. I love the world nostalgia, it comes from the Greek words nostos (νόστος)=return and algos (ἄλγος)=pain. Aching, aching to return. Aching to go back when I lived on my own. I miss my cosy, little studio I decorated myself. With the sun shining through during the day and watching the beautiful sunrise in the evening. It was small but perfectly formed. And I had the best landlord ever.
I’ve been thinking long and hard how to put my thoughts in writing without coming across as mean and horrible. Well, maybe I am. After all Eleanor Shellstrop of the Good Place is my inspiration right now. Legend.
The story so far…
It’s been a month today since I’ve moved into a shared flat.
I quickly got over the fact there is someone else listening to my music, hear me singing on my guitar, chatting with my friends, talking non-stop on Insta stories, my new obsession, or even smaller things that are surprisingly hard to get used to like going for a wee or number two or listen to my terrible singing when I have a shower. It wasn’t easy but I’m OK with it.
But I still can’t get used to it. I miss being on my own.
My flatmate has been really nice and friendly. Maybe too nice and friendly. He always offers to help, he even cooked for me, not the best cooking but I’m a harsh judge with all the chefs in the family and my love for food but he put music on and bought wine. What was that all about? Maybe a bit too much? Or am I just being Eleanor again?
Others would die for someone to offer help or cook for them but I don’t. I love my independence, doing things by myself. If I need help I’ll ask my friends.
When I come home after a long day I want to be on my own, unwind and do my yoga, write, read, draw, sing, play my guitar… The last thing I want is socialising. If I feel the need to talk to someone, I’ll chat to my friends and my family or I’ll ask a friend to come over or I’ll go out and meet my friends.
I make friends all the time. I’ll chat to everyone. Every human is special, even the not so nice ones. But home it’s a different story for me. Home is where I relax, I create, I have fun, I cry, I laugh, is my shelter, my comfort. It’s me time. And I find it hard to adjust.
It took me two years to reach where I am today and it’s vital, essential for my mental health and wellbeing to have my own space.
I kept thinking it would be different if it wasn’t just the two of us. Or if I lived with a girl. Or a friend.
I understand that my flatmate is going through his own battle. He is still getting used to the new situation himself. He used to live with a loved one, not a stranger, so he is probably still learning himself, like I do.
I totally respect that. I want him to be well and happy. And that’s why I kept all this to myself until now. It’s hard to have such a sensitive conversation without ending up hurting the other person, I wouldn’t like to do that. Although, I’m painfully aware he may well be reading this.
It’s nothing personal. That’s just how I feel. I miss my little home. And my way of dealing with all of this is to write about it. Writing is my therapy.
What have I learned so far?
My room is now my shelter, my castle, it’s bright and peaceful as a friend beautifully described it. The rest of the house is for sharing. So if I want to be on my own, my bedroom is my paradise. This is the only space is just mine.
I’m still unsure what the rules are when using the kitchen but I usually tend to cook when it’s free. I don’t want to be in his way.
I rarely use the living room anymore. I feel more comfortable eating in my room whilst I watch Friends or binge-watch a new series. Why make someone else watch what I want to watch?
The biggest lesson I’ve learnt is that having my own space is more important to me that I thought it’d be. But I’m doing all this for a reason. And I’ll stick to it for the next 5 months.
It may get easier, it may not, although I’m hoping it will.
For now my room is my little comfort blanket, my hideaway, my creative hub and it’s enough, for now…