In my 30 years of being on this planet, I’ve lived in 12 different homes. Might even be more than that. That’s two and a half years in each place, on average. Of course, some of these I’ve lived in longer than that which means that I’ve lived a lot shorter than 2.5 years in many of them too. I once heard someone say that besides a death within your close circle, a divorce and a move are som of the biggest traumas one can deal with.
I guess I could blame it all on my parents. My dad sailed the Louis Vuitton Cup twice when I was a kid, so we relocated to both New Zealand and Spain for a few years each and landed back in Sweden in between. My mum just generally loved scouring the web for bigger and better apartments and in Stockholm you can apply to swap apartments with someone kind of loosely. So we did that, more than once. Between the two of them, they laid a pretty good foundation for me to become a person who has a hard time setting roots whilst simultaneously craving routine and normalcy wherever I go. Now I’m not complaining, I save that for my therapist, but there were some hard parts about always being on the move – as well as some very good parts.
Skip forward a few years and here we are. Tomorrow, I will be moving. Yet again. Because I was dumped. That’s right, I had no choice in the matter but I still have to do all of the really sh*tty tasks like sort through years and years of accumulated *stuff*, pack it into cardboard boxes, carry it down the stairs and then back up another set of stairs as well as find new places for it all. And the best part? I can only keep this new apartment as long as I’m studying, so in two years time I get to do it all again. Checks out, since my current rate is going through an apartment in 2.5 years.
It isn’t all bad though. I was in this really lovely little shop today called Brandstationen (The Fire Station) sniffing around their scented candles section trying to decide how my new apartment will smell. She’s a mint/bergamot kinda gal – I can feel it. And I get to paint the walls any colour I want without consulting someone who thinks buying wall paint is equivalent to flushing money down the toilet, so there’s always that. I can vacuum however many times a week I choose and I won’t have to nag anyone to take out the trash or do the dishes (except myself, of course). Look at me turning these lemons into something vaguely resembling lemonade. Jokes aside, I’m quite ready to just get the f*ck out of the old apartment filled with memories and literal broken dreams and just get a fresh start. That’s the blessing and the curse.
I wonder what new habits I’ll develop. Obviously I’ve already pictured myself becoming a new person who gets up at 6 to take my dog for a jog before I make myself a protein rich-breakfast and a matcha latte. My closet will be a perfectly tidy affair which I also adjust seasonally, my kitchen will always smell of freshly baked bread and hold only healthy snack options, my bathroom will be a haven in which I can always find time for self care and plump, glowing skin. This apartment will host many fun and intellectual dinner parties, as well as a few steamy romances. My dog will never ever ever bark at the neighbors or the guests (he pinky promised).
So why am I so goddamn sad?
And will I ever get out of this two and a half year curse?
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I lost my dream home and the love of my life in a divorce. I'm in a different house now with a fabulous new husband. Happier but still miss the heck out that house. Also still traumatized by the whole experience. It will get better. Paint those walls!
Julia, I just want to say—I’m so rooting for you!!! I always love reading your updates. They feel so personal, like I’m hearing from a dear friend. I can’t wait to see how everything unfolds for you.