Art by @subliming.jpg |
Time sped forward too quickly, and in a blur, I had to say
goodbye to my flat, the home I’d built myself over the year. I wanted to cry
but I didn’t, and I still can’t really decide why. I either packed all my
things in a trance of denial or in a state of acceptance, knowing I’d got
exactly what I needed from this place. Part of uni life is not really having a
home as you’re torn between your hometown and adopted city, the very word takes
on an uncertainty as you have to clarify where you mean. But I didn’t feel that
this year, my flat was my home. I got to escape the familiar unsettled feeling
as I had a full place to call my own, shared with no one, my things
unrestricted to one room. And I know that was such a privilege, I definitely
see that now. So few people will ever live alone, moving from their hometown to
shared uni houses to a home with a friend or partner, and even fewer people get
to live alone during such formative and intense years of their life as I did.
So few people will ever get to experience the very particular and whole feeling
of home when you alone occupy an entire place; no sharing, no need to consider
anyone else’s patterns or tastes, all yours. And so many people would consider the
thought of all it a nightmare, I had my moments where I did too.
I moved in in September, and in November I was still begging
people to come over. I would make frantic plans with half-friends, desperately
cling to the frayed edges of relationships I should’ve let die just because I
wanted company. I gave so much energy to filling my own space, partly because I
thought I should. I live alone so my house should always be full of friends,
right? It should be the base, a place for communion, right? I acted as if I was
holding space for others, sat in only one seat on the sofa, reserving the rest
for imaginary guests that I slowly stopped inviting. If you told me then I’d be
sad to move out, I would have laughed, made some joke about missing the décor
and that’s about it. Even in the blog post I wrote about it, you can hear it in
my words; reluctance. I was dragging my heels for a long time, still refusing
the give over my strongest vice, clinging onto reliance as my flat spoke
softly, coaxing me into letting go.
And I did, somewhere between December and now. I closed my
door and started staying in more. I invested in a salt lamp and a lot of candles
and spiced chai tea leaves. I filled the second sofa with blankets and cushions
and baked banana bread for myself on Sundays. I stopped inviting people over
and started asking people to leave, politely, as my mind longed for space
back. I loved living alone, truly. But more so, I learned so much living alone
and in the final months, I became so aware of the education I was getting there.
Here are the lessons:
Space is so important...
It sounds so ridiculously obvious but I thought I already
knew it. I’ve been chatting shit about interiors for years now, about curating
a calming space and fairy lights and blah. But it was more than that this year.
I felt so defensive of my home, so scared about it becoming tainted. I moved
into it so terrified of Sheffield, but also of myself and my memories as I was
desperately trying to claw my way out of heartbreak, so scared it would walk
its muddy hooves into my new home. So this year curating my space was more an
act of self-preservation and defence, I had to build a fortress.
There’s so much power in space and energy that I never knew
before. When you live with other people, there’s a big merge of moods and vibes
all coming in and out which can be good or bad depending on the day, but it’s always
changing. When you live alone, it’s all you. My flat mirrored me, if I was down
it felt like the biggest, loneliest place in the world. It really tested me, challenging
my ability to comfort myself. I learnt to start manifesting. If I couldn’t
treat myself right, I knew I could treat my space right and eventually it would
soak through. In this way, my flat felt made for me. If I woke up struggling,
the big window forced light into my room, reflecting a pattern of leaves onto
my wall. The morning demanded to be seen, it coaxed me out of bed, gently
telling me to make some coffee and do some yoga, crossing its fingers that I’d
listen that day. I invested in more than just lighting and blankets. I really considered
scents and lines of vision, curating moods rather than aesthetics. During the
day I burnt candles with orange oil, massaged lemon oil into my wrists and
opened the curtains wide in my living room. It felt bright and big and
optimistic. In the evening, I turned on my salt lamp, burnt lavender incense,
allowed palo santo smoke hug my bedhead as I said to myself; this is my healing
space. And I felt that. I learnt to pull myself from mood to mood, learnt how
important it was to consider the energy I was filling my flat with, listen out
to all the hints telling me to alter it.
It sounds ridiculous I know. But regardless, whether you
believe in sacred wood or aromatherapy or any of that, no one can deny the
power of a ritual. No one can deny that we find comfort in habit, in having
faith in a routine that works. I built my space around those rituals, around
lavender at night and coffee in the morning. The fairy lights and pom poms were
just accessories.
Give yourself actual time and space...
The best part of my flat was the fact that no one had been
there before. Exes, friends, no one but me and my mum had seen it until I
invited people in. As a person with a hyperactive memory, leaving places,
clothes, songs all dripping with ghosts, this was the biggest blessing. Healing
feels so much harder in a marked space, I know. Sheffield felt impossible, and
I think if I had to go back to a place that he’d been to, or that I’d known
with someone else, I wouldn’t have been able to pull it back. My flat meant I
never had to do that, it allowed me time and space without struggling to out
ghosts. There were none there, I only had to focus on myself, cleansing me
without worrying about external contamination. Being all mine and memory-less,
my flat in Sheffield gave me space from the Sheffield I had known. I could grab
back some control over the place and my experience there, choosing who I saw
and who I avoided, choosing where I went rather than being caught up in a group
decision. I could decide everything there, and allow myself time with no
interruption or opinion. When I wanted to, sometimes I would go days and speak
to no one. I’d take myself for coffee and write, buy ingredients to cook myself
a meal, watch the same films over and over, and decide to sleep at 9pm if I wanted.
Having total control over myself and my behaviours, being completely unbothered
and uninterrupted was heaven for my healing.
With space, Sheffield came back to me. I could retreat
to the neutral land of my home then slowly march forward, reclaiming places one
by one as the hands of heartbreak loosened, replaced by my own arms around me. A
year later, I feel great. I feel so free and in control of myself. I feel ready
to move forward and leave behind all the memories, a feeling I know my flat
helped cultivate.
I love me...
While self-love is a huge, life-long journey, I feel it
stronger than ever. This year, in the silence of solo living, I’ve gotten to
know myself. I’ve seen quirks about myself that I’d never noticed, I’ve talked
to myself like a friend offering jokes and comfort and confrontation when
needed. I’d laugh with myself because why shouldn’t I. I found a friend in
myself, and she always wants to sing along to my music and watch the same TV
shows. I felt this new sense of sitting with myself, each night as I would
journal, forcing myself to really consider what I felt and why. There was no
one else to hide behind, no one else to talk to, so I had to get to know
myself, I had to welcome myself in.
I think that’s why a lot of people would be so scared to
live alone, all that time with no one but yourself. We don’t want to be left
alone with our thoughts, having no option but to listen to the voice in our
heads and confront it. But that’s why I did it. I’ve been in relationships my
entire teenage life, I’ve been distracting myself from myself for so long that
I needed to have no choice. I needed to force myself to hang out with myself
for longer than the time it takes to do a face mask and go in the bath. I
needed more than the stereotypical self-care night, I needed something intense
and radical because my reliance was damaging me. It worked. That’s all I can
really say. I now look forward to time alone, seeing myself as a best friend
who I genuinely love spending time with. By learning to take care of myself, I
see so much value in myself, so many great qualities as I treat myself with
patience and care and empathy. I love the joy in me, the life. I love the fun
in me that I used to only ever see in the face of another, I love that I know
need no one to bring it out. By getting to this point of complete contentment
with being alone, I now feel like I can better evaluate my interactions with
others. When I love hanging out with myself, why would I give time and energy
to hanging out with someone else that doesn’t make me feel as good? When I’ve
set a standard of treatment within myself, why would I lower it? Turns out what
The Slumflower’s book can’t seem to teach you, living alone can.
It’s wild to me that it took this. It took living alone for
me to learn that I am truly complete, needing no one. I’m whole; the simplest,
most radical lesson. I’ve spent a whole year alone and I haven’t died of
loneliness, instead, I feel the most in control and comforted I ever have. It's
sad that I had to actively learn it, to force isolation on myself to be able to
see that I never needed anyone to hold my hand. Women especially are rarely given
space to be alone, our loneliness isn’t valued but is shut down as a holding
period, we’re on the shelf until a new companion. We go from parents to partners,
we don’t walk home alone, we stick close to friends. If we spend too long
silence or alone, people ask if we’re okay. There’s so much expectation to have
a partner, to please others and fit into expectations. We’re treated as a half,
waiting for the other side to find us and complete the circle. No. I’m
everything. I’m all.
On Valentine's day, I spent the day alone. I went to the
library and worked, I took myself shopping and bought myself a gift, I cooked
myself homemade pasta and brownies. Tell me where I need a companion? I sat in my flat, surrounded by candles and
comforts, I laughed out-loud to a film, I wrote myself a love letter. I looked
after myself, wholly and entirely. There was no empty space, there never was in
my flat. It was all mine, filled up by me and my moods and my thoughts.
Somewhere along the line, I realised I was the same; whole and content belonging
entirely to myself.
Move in with yourself if you can. It’ll change things, it’ll
force change on you and make you wonder why you were ever scared of it. Looking
back, I wonder why I was so resistant to shutting the door and being alone. Why
was I ever scared of myself? When I’m the only person that can guarantee myself
full and unconditional love and companionship. Move in with yourself and you’ll
learn the limitless loyalty of yourself, learn to cut reliance on anyone when
you see the strength of relying on yourself. If you can’t, dedicate more time
to yourself. Turn down invites, close your door, talk to yourself. Actually
talk, out loud, whisper with yourself and share jokes. Write letters to
yourself divulging your deepest feelings and enter into a dialogue. Cook yourself
a meal, do not share it. Pour yourself a glass of wine, light candles, romance
yourself. Nurture every mood and every feeling with no interruption or pressure
to suppress it. Feel your own energy, unaffected and all-consuming. Realise
that you need no one to survive, live, thrive, bring you joy, bring you comfort.
You have everything you need in yourself, you’re the best housemate you could
ever find because you’ve always lived together. Make a best friend out of
yourself, and love the time you spend alone.
I miss my flat so deeply. I miss the décor and the
fireplaces and the feeling I had each morning and each night as I woke myself
up and rocked myself to sleep. But it taught me what I needed, and I hope its
new occupiers find what they need there too as I wander onto my next house knowing
I’m always at home with myself.
0 comments