Moving On: The Post-Break-Up Apartment

by Pilar Anderson

“It’s a little strange here,” I wrote in my journal on the first night alone in my new apartment. It was a small concession, wedged between a list of to-do’s (”paint my walls,” “need lamps…better linen…a new comforter”) and things done (”unpacked,” “straightened up my files”). The overall sentiment about my new world order? “It is a fairly good feeling.”

After the past six months, you’d think my newly acquired independence would kick open a door that led toward more triumphant living. Living with my ex-boyfriend during that time, I yearned for my own space. I would meditate on a vision of myself in the near future: Sitting in a living room, alone, quiet, content. I got the living room, I had the silence, there was no one to interrupt. The “content” part was hard to come by. I didn’t feel so much free as I did hemmed in by the small quarters. Instead of feeling satisfied I could only ask: Had I simply switched cages?

“For many, many people, a tested or failed relationship is the gateway into their most formative Phoenix Process,” writes Elizabeth Lesser, author of Broken Open: How Difficult Times Can Help Us Grow. Lesser describes that process as the path to inner peace; to willingly undergo it is to be changed by “the shattered pieces of a difficult time” and come out for the better. “Our illusions, our rigidity, our fear, our blame, our lack of faith, and our sense of separation: All of these—in varying strengths and combinations—are what must die in order for a more true self to arise.”

The size of my apartment seemed to anchor my perceived inadequacies. By the time I found it, I was so desperate I would’ve agreed to pretty much anything within my price range. So when I walked into the 300 square foot “starter apartment” for less than $1,300 a month, my absolute ceiling on what I could afford, I felt the urge to snap it up. Especially since there was another man who saw it immediately after I did and wanted it as well. Never mind that the bathroom was tiled a Pepto-Bismol pink or that the place had only one window or that the foyer wood floor was anything but level.

When I moved in, all of my furniture—one half of a green sectional sofa, a queen-size bed, a bureau dresser, and a small ladder desk and accompanying bookshelf—barely fit into the main space. It was all I could do to shove everything against the wall, creating a narrow pathway to the window. Because the place was small, things got cluttered quickly and overall, the apartment felt cramped. I was embarrassed to have people over because of the unfortunate layout of my furniture. The only seating available on the sofa pretty much limited conversation since no one could really speak face-to-face. After a while, even I didn’t want to be in the apartment. I grew resentful that I was stuck with furniture fit for a master bedroom, all cramped together in my tiny studio. I cultivated a limitless reserve of small-apartment jokes.