The irony…writing this post with half my bedroom filled with moving boxes after three weeks here.
If you’ve followed along, you know I moved to Salem on September 1st. What sense does three weeks make?
Well, guess who just moved in Salem twice in the span of a month? A record!
You’re not alone if feeling at home has never quite felt safe. I’ve lived in that state of unease for the last two decades. There’s no blame to assign for that; life does what it does, and we adapt (somehow). But, when you live this way for so long and the hyper-vigilance runs deep, how do you tear down those walls and renovate? What exactly in the depths of our souls causes that discomfort?
Here’s my experience, which may hopefully give words to people who can’t explain theirs.
Roots In Restlessness
Long before I started moving from apartment to apartment, I learned that stability wasn’t something to trust completely. Even when nothing was actively changing, there was often an awareness that change could be around the corner. My parents’ divorce hit me hard emotionally and logistically as a kid and teen, and the rhythm of moving between households made permanence feel more complicated. (Looking back, I think I spent a lot of time preparing for the possibility of change even when no change came.)
Putting aside physical factors, I hated my hometown. I always yearned for somewhere more and new. I was a lonely hermit with few to no friends thanks to the eternal storm cloud of unmedicated depression over my head. I was bullied physically and emotionally at school. If I felt misunderstood or hurt (which was often), my first instinct was to pack a bag and see the world with my dog. Whether I knew it or not, I chased the ‘what-ifs’ of a life where I was cooler, happier, and somewhere less… barren. I was convinced the next town, the next opportunity, the next version of myself would finally be the one that fixed everything…the thing that drew me to the music industry, too.
And this continued into my twenties and beyond.
Slow-Sinking Foundations
When my early twenties arrived, so did my first true relationship. I met my ex Bee through my best friend at the time at parties, but two years of subtle pressure finally paid off for her and brought us together. I unknowingly wanted someone who could validate and fix me. As someone emotionally damaged with no relationship experience, I unknowingly threw that role onto him.
It worked until it didn’t.
Years passed, and I found my mind dancing to a familiar rhythm. Despite nesting in our final home together after two prior moves, it once again wondered, “What else?”
To nobody’s surprise, Bee couldn’t heal wounds he didn’t create. I still hated Pennsylvania as much as I ever had. My health declined, my job drained me, and then my grandparents, who had long served as emotional anchors in my life, died. The list of reasons I felt trapped seemed to grow faster than the list of reasons to stay and “make do”.
My reaction? Run away. But how?
In 2023, I threw myself into my brief music industry career after “discussing” it with Bee. (Yeah, if that means telling him I’d probably kill myself if I didn’t try this and unintentionally guilting him into agreement.) Even if they were small midwest towns with nothing happening, I still discovered new places and met new people — the thing I craved more than anything after my first tour “gig” in 2014. Every day was different and exciting, breaking any monotony under my feet. Yet I came home wanting to chase more and go right back out even though I missed him. If anything, sometimes I’d be angry that I had to return to that loving place and person.
By late 2024, I was mentally elsewhere while he was practically alone with an inattentive shell. As we’d sit on the couch together, he’d watch a YouTube video while I chatted with friends on Discord or did music industry work (scheduling, resumes, etc.). Little moments like watching stupid gaming videos together lost their power after I got a taste of what nomad life could be and strangers and acquaintances flirting with me/making me feel excited and alive.
At that same time, I drunkenly threw the final punch that forever crumbled our foundation.
Collapses
Eight years of quiet adoration and laughter morphed into a black hole. Bee’s eyes that once lit up at my presence stared me down coldly, ready to shoot the daggers his iciness sharpened at me. I suffered through the most awkward three weeks of my life living with my ex and noticing how everything fell apart: my relationship, my friendships, and even my car’s unfixable transmission.
Then the Rhode Island chapter opened.
It was a new town and state, but nothing was the easy fix I’d hoped for with this forced “fresh start”. My body and mind fell apart so badly that I quit a weekend travel gig three weeks in. I struggled with stable employment for five months. When I finally found stable employment, I had to learn skills most adults had already mastered like making my rent share on time every month. (Bless my friends for being so patient with me then.)
In the throes of my first month or two of single life in almost a decade, I also found my eventual failed rebound Ratcliffe. As most relationships go, the first few months were fantastic. We had common music tastes, interesting and deep conversations. He was a gentleman. He said he loved me first. I was certain I knew what a rebound looked and felt like…that this was another real foundation.
Wrong.
Once again, I mistook impulse and instant gratification as my intuition’s voice. Months later, Ratcliffe got mean. Everything I did or said required criticism. I never recognized everything he did for me. I couldn’t leave my phone to use the bathroom without a “Where are you?” message waiting for me. He called me names for a “nickname”. He also manipulated me into thinking I couldn’t handle life on my own and that we should live together when my friends prepared to leave Rhode Island.
My intuition screamed this couldn’t be right, but I wanted it to be right so badly; I loved him deeply. I thought I knew best and could “fix” this or make it work. Things could be better when we were together every day and able to spend quality time together…right?
Again — wrong.
That week living with him in Massachusetts was the briefest, yet longest week of my life. The meanness only escalated to the point where talking to family and friends on the phone made me uncomfortable. He was possessive to isolate me. I swallowed every bit of gaslighting he threw my way knowing I’d, once again, made a bad decision. The only reason I left was my dad straightening my backbone for me over the phone and my friends helping me move once again back to Rhode Island before they moved.
So I sat in my Rhode Island sanctuary again, staring into a room as empty as I felt.
Renovation
I wish I could say renovation meant staying put for good.
But of course it didn’t.
That’s the frustrating thing about renovation. You repair one wall only to discover leak damage behind another. Progress rarely shows without exposing other issues.
My friends moved out, and I found a new roommate for my last seven months in the Rhode Island apartment. (Not the worst one, but not the best.) With each passing day, little bits of trauma showed their faces — the hyper-vigilance hearing her move around the apartment, guilt about doing nothing on a day off, and seeing who I thought Ratcliffe was and could be every time I closed my eyes. I made do despite the depression and made a few friends. I was even under the impression that I may have stayed at that apartment at least another year and been able to breathe.
Without fail, the universe stamped a fat “No” on that one.
The roommate wanted to live with her new boyfriend, and that is what it is. The consequence, though, was me left scrambling…AGAIN. And the fact that I could technically go wherever I wanted almost drowned me with overwhelm instead of promise.
Staying was the easiest option, but not without its challenges. I lived in a part of the state that many aren’t actively moving to, making a new random roommate hard to find. It didn’t have much to do, and the public transportation made a day trip to Providence or Newport at least two hours one way. I had one friend who would try to see me while others flaked. Factors like that convinced me I needed change, which gave me the bravery to give the North Shore a try. (Even if it wasn’t in Salem, I’d be closer to it with better public transportation.)
We know Salem worked out for me in the end…or did it?
I made it to my new room in Salem. The unease around one of my (now former) roommates slapped me in the face from day one. The place was disgusting at move-in, and I lived in a surveillance state with a scary man. I ate nothing but microwave food or take-out so I could hide. I hadn’t seen the space beforehand trusting everything was legal. A guy was living in there before me; it had to be legal and just a bit…odd, right?
NOPE.
Long story short, it wasn’t an actual bedroom and blocked a fire exit for my roommates. That led to me being displaced for almost two weeks, commuting for my work-from-home job and packing to and from a Lynn Airbnb the whole time. Anxiety wrenched my stomach while a landlord, more concerned with covering their tracks, piled the pressure on me to find a new place.
How could this be happening when I’d reached my goal city and things should be getting better?
As life does somehow, it did work out. I found a new place fairly quickly, and it’s leagues better than where I was. The home is clean and quiet with decent roommates who take care of the space and keep to themselves. No cameras dwell in the common spaces anymore. The landlord is professional, yet kind and has been from the start. I’ve made it three weeks without anything indicating a kick-out (longer than I lived at the other room).
But my nervous system can’t catch up.
The hopeful part of my brain imagines how I could make this space more “me” with art and pictures. My displacement anxiety screams back, though, “Don’t you dare feel comfortable!”
So here I sit with my boxes and trash bags full of bedding and clothes as I always do. (Yay not finding my people in town yet, but how can I in this liminal emotional space?) Suddenly, a wash of forgiveness envelops me. While I’ve beaten myself up about being stuck in unpack mode, writing this held a mirror up to my face.
How could I possibly unpack quickly and nestle in with my track record? I wouldn’t expect someone else to bounce back quickly if they lived my story; why do I expect myself to do the impossible? Why am I not allowed to be depressed and tired? I’m allowed to be like this and hate every moment of it.
What does “unpacking” mean in this state? Unpacking is dissecting and understanding the cause of my depression and fatigue for continued forgiveness with accountability. And it’s taking as much time as I need to find a home for my belongings/get rid of boxes and bags because, despite my nervous system’s alarms, Salem, its community/people, and this apartment aren’t going anywhere any time soon.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself today.
Let’s Discuss!