I’m not sure if anyone has ever told you this, but divorce is kind of the worst. There are lots of unexpected hidden gems that no one warns you about. Extreme weight fluctuations that require a new wardrobe, lowered self-esteem, mounting legal bills, the loss of a planned future and your favorite blender, and the sting of losing a partner to do life with all take separate tolls on divorced partners. However, something I was personally not prepared for was the pain I would feel due to losing my home.
Some people are fortunate enough to hold onto their home after the split, but my finances simply could not support a townhouse in Northern Virginia on a non-profit income. The housing market in the greater Washington area has ballooned to the point that I could rent an entire mountain in my hometown for the same price as a studio apartment in this area. The reality was that I had to leave my townhome. Quickly.
My actual moving day was a flurry of chaos. The situation called for an in-and-out, all hands on deck, pack and move all in one day kind of event. I am fortunate to have a team of coworkers who were willing to take a day off and make this happen. However, because of the haste, I didn’t really get a chance to process the gravity of what I was doing. It was all too fast, and I spent the day playing the role of an air traffic controller and didn’t take the time I needed to grieve – to appreciate – to mourn. To say goodbye to the precious parts of my house that I had tended and loved for several years.
I truly loved this house, even though it was modest in comparison to most homes in the area. There was a garden outside with daffodils that bloom every spring, (even the first year in a plastic bag because I forgot to plant them). The back deck with the monstrous six-person table that I had fought for in spite of limited space in order to host dinners outside for my friends. The large two-story living room with windows looking out at real trees and squirrels amidst the busy, compact nature of most northern Virginia neighborhoods. The dining room with countless shared meals and parties. The running trails that I had navigated so often I knew exactly which path to take if I wanted a 3, 4, or 5 mile jog. The banister where my stepdaughter dropped a ten-foot chain of stuffed animals once in a “secret mission” and the loud, terrible drum kit we bought for my stepson. The walls we painted and the furniture we selected together. The gas stove where I cooked a million dinners – some tasty and some tolerable. The saltwater tank we tended for years and the memorial garden for our deceased guinea pig, Mindy. Every inch of space carries a mile of memories. This was a home – a true home that we built together and expected to live in long enough that it made sense to hang photos, add in a backsplash, and change light fixtures.
It was a home.
Then, it was not.
It was gone and I could never return to gain real closure. I think I dreamed about returning to my house every week for at least a year because my brain just couldn’t let it go. After waking up, my heart was broken all over again for a home that had become a part of me. It is fascinating that now two years later I still tear up just thinking about the lost memories, which speaks to the depth of pain that I never took time to mourn, and it gives just the tiniest glimpse into the devastation experienced by refugees. My miniscule experience pales in comparison, but now the empathy I have for those who are displaced has grown exponentially.
One of my dearest friends allowed me to stay with her for the first few months of separation, and for that I will be forever grateful. However, I knew that could only last for so long before I needed to find a place of my own. Given the nature of my separation, I needed somewhere with some distance from my life, which meant a new town, and based on my income, it needed to be small.
After I finally found an apartment that didn’t make me cry, the lifestyle changes were palpable and immediate. If I’m being honest, I believe I was in shock for at least six months of moving out. I went from a 2,400 square foot end-unit townhome to 700 square feet of interior apartment living. I realize that this is large compared to many other apartments, but I didn’t have room for a dining table. Lots of items were left behind. I didn’t know where any stores were, because I had operated within the same bubble of Reston for the entire ten years I had lived in this area. I relied on GPS to get everywhere except the Harris Teeter right below my building, and all of my appointments were inconvenient to my new space. My cat decided to share her hidden talent of vomiting on everything then promptly stopped eating due to the stress of multiple moves. Being alone at night after experiencing trauma resulted in a few panic attacks and it took me a long time to find a new normal with a commute requiring I join the misery on I-66 every day. This is what they don’t tell you about divorce. In an instant, everything about your life changes when you are least capable of handling it. At a time when you are living in constant fog of depression and can’t make basic decisions about what to eat for dinner, you are also trying to figure out how to live alone and set up new routines in an unfamiliar home, town, or sometimes even a new state.
However, slowly things turned around.
Often the final years of a failing marriage are spent somewhat isolated – particularly if you are trying to hide the fissures and reasons for the split. Strategically, I moved into a building where a few friends lived, and this forced me to stop isolating and start living again. The smaller size of the space that initially caused me distress soon became very comforting. I realized I’m probably built for a smaller space because I hate cleaning and am embracing a more minimalist lifestyle. After about a year I finally hung a few paintings on the wall, including one that a friend and I completed in a paint bar near my apartment. Being closer to the city meant I could metro downtown easier and catch up with friends much more often. I put together some furniture on my own and then used that table as a writing and music area. I found a great spot for meditating in my bedroom. God and I had a lot of conversations on the bike trail nearby, and I slowly discovered cooking again (even though I’m on an electric stove now which will forever be inferior to gas). I’m not sure when it happened, but this new apartment became home.
Now two years later, I am faced with moving once again. Unfortunately the housing market continues to rise, and each year my rent goes up more and more. I realized that if I ever want to be fully financially independent, I need to once again re-assess my standard of living and find a space a bit smaller, a bit older, and closer to work. The shiny amenities of my current apartment helped ease the pain of a downgrade, but now they are a luxury I simply don’t need to keep paying for.
These moves are painful, and I am finding that people going through divorce are often forced into this somewhat nomadic life. Finding roommates in your thirties is tricky business, as most of my friends are married with children. However, some people that do end up with roommates find that even this only serves as a temporary solution until life changes come up. Larger apartment complexes like mine raise rent every year forcing some out, and others who rent a condo directly from an individual owner find that their lease is not being renewed when the owner chooses to sell. It feels impossible to put roots down or hang curtains. Honestly, the thought of relocating to a third city feels daunting. Routines must change once again, and I am collecting doctors all across the region. The yoga studio I have grown to love is not going to be a possibility anymore and I’ll no longer have access to the W&OD biking trails. However, I think it’s time for a new chapter.
It is hard to believe that I have been in this space for two years. I have cried, laughed ,and healed here. I have gotten to know parts of myself that I had forgotten existed and learned to live truly alone. For that I am forever grateful to this little apartment. This time I will do things differently and honor the emotional weight that comes with a move. I can pack more slowly and take time to appreciate what I’ve gained here. I hope to spend the next few weeks remembering the things I’ve loved most about this neighborhood. I will take the metro downtown, visit Harris Teeter in the middle of the night, and meet friends for trivia night a block away. I’ll take my bike out on the trail (if it ever stops raining) and sit on my patio. This apartment is important and deserves to be honored.
As I move into this new condo, I want to be very intentional about only bringing in items that I want to have – including energy and memories. I want to clear my closet, kitchen, and mind of clutter that no longer serves me. If my last apartment was for healing, my hope is that this one is for growth, as I truly rebuild a new life of my choosing.
