My first week in my new apartment; the dust is settling and I’m starting to settle in on a nest of my own. Moving out, so far, is proving to be the best gift I could have given myself to mark my 36th birthday last week. I am now, finally, my own man.
My former roomate and I have practically broken all ties, and good thing, too. Less stress, less drama. He tried to draw me into some drama last weekend; hadn’t even been moved out 18 hours and he was yelling at me about taking the cable modem; a case of I-said-You-said. The jackass stole my cable internet account without my permission, and, if I have learned right, the only way to do so would be to file a bunch of paperwork at the cable office to transfer an account from one name to another…and both parties must file. So, it looks like someone impersonated me. A heady accusation to make, but it would be fitting as a final “fuck you” to someone he no longer cared about.
After being on the phone with Time-Warner sunday, I decided that the best disposition of the modem was to go to my old apartment, open the door, attach a note to the modem that said “So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish!”, drop it and my old keys on the floor, and lock the door on my way out.
I dusted my hands on the walk back to the car.
It pleases me that we are no longer in each other’s sphere of influence. I can remove the gloves when necessary now instead of biting my bleeding tongue in an insane fit of diplomacy. That I stayed in the same household with him for almost six years speaks volumes of my insanity, laziness, fear, poverty, and an unwillingness to rock the boat. It’s a testament to intersocial constipation. I held back so much shit over the years, it just stopped flowing. The long winter. The dead season. The minutes of decay in the hour of life.
After our friendship went sour, I stopped communicating, he stopped trying. We found comfort in plausible deniability: I was simply closing my door because I didn’t want to bother him with my loud music; he closed his door because he didn’t want to bother me with his smoking. Our avoidance of each other was because we didn’t get along, but acting as such would have been unbearably direct. We had to find nonverbal excuses. Everything was unbearably passive-aggressive. We didn’t talk beyond an infrequent “hey” and a terse discussion of bills. On occasion, it was friendly, but that was just on the face of it. In private, fingers would fly. In public, tongues would wag. Our rare instances of actual contact over important issues met with inflamed egos and enraged anger. Usually, someone left the house shortly afterwards.
But no more of that.
I am in my own place now. I can stretch out. I can change. I can grow, create, do stuff without commentary, remarks, surprise. I can sit in the common area without bother. I can watch a heavy movie without the risk of someone barging in the front door dragging three strange friends and interrupting the moment at a particularly heavy part of the plot. The environment won’t change suddenly without my hand on the handle.
I am in my own place. Now, instead of having to avoid when I go home, I only have to avoid in the rare public place. That’s easy enough; avoiding in your own private sanctuary is much more difficult and taxing.
I am in my own place. It’s over now. I hope he and I can reach some shred of reconciliation, but right now, it’s doubtful and for the short term unwanted. I’m out. It’s over. We’re done.
I am on my own.