She doesn't have a name yet.

In January 2020, I moved out of the family home, where I'd been unexpectedly lodged but fairly happily for a few years post-uni. I say 'fairly happily' because it was a few years in the wilderness for me, health-wise. I was in and out of various hospitals (I counted, 10 in total), going through treatments and having surgeries - some unexpected and urgent, some planned in advance and anxiously anticipated. Well, that January I was just over a year in the clear; my scars were healing, face swelling was under control, MRI results were mostly positive and I hadn't woken in the middle of the night almost blind with pain and throwing up faecal matter for some time. All was relatively calm. Sure, I'd been depressed, but who hadn't? 

I lived alone for three and a half years. Obviously for some of that time I was very alone; locked down, isolating and/or shielding or whatever the GP decided to call it that week. As I always seem to be saying, in this silly little digital ether I scatter my stories into, hoping they take root, I had wanted to live alone since I was very small. I have always been independent. I've always enjoyed my own company. So, of course, I loved those years. I wouldn't say every minute, but most minutes. There was a greater proportion of happy minutes than not. I'll say that. 

I stopped living alone in 2023, at the tail end of a particularly chaotic and spicy summer. Well, now, here I am again. Holding the keys to my very own 'just me (again)' space; to my near future which is simultaneously where I wanted to be at the very beginning. 

My flat doesn't have a name yet, but I greet her every time I walk in, and insist that my visitors do, too. I say goodbye when I leave, and have started peeking through the window in the top of the front door to check everything is in place - recently I've been smiling through the glass at bits of my belongings starting to take up floor space and my dishes piling up in the drainer, under the window which looks out over my garden. MY garden. It's all mine. It hasn't truly sunk in yet. What's strange is how much joy I'm finding in everything. This includes the obvious exciting pinch-me moments like receiving post addressed to me, taking in big deliveries, displaying New Home cards on my mantelpiece and tentatively putting tiny decorative things in place i.e. hanging my ceramic knick knacks on the existing nails in walls and draping my enormous The Sun tarot card wall hanging over my bed while I try and find my duvet and pillows in my storage unit. But it's also the less likely things bringing me joy, like the expenses! Anyone who knows me knows I'm a thrifty bugger, but I'm suddenly thrilled to be spending savings all over the place on amenities, improvements and unexpected extras. I'm sure I'll feel differently when the first mortgage payment officially flies out of my account. In the meantime, though... 

Sometimes I worry about being lonely. But then I try and reflect on the happy years I spent in my own company, pulling up the memories like a flickering slideshow on a projector screen behind my eyes, and also tell my tired mind that it's okay to be lonesome at times. It's about sitting with the wonderings of how life could have been, as much as it is remembering how I forged my path with decisions made entirely in the spirit of me and my comfort and my hopes. She did it. She found her way, and she did it alone, but with loved ones and supporters surrounding her and cheering her on at every turn. 

I've been assigning a lot to this new chapter. I've told myself I'll start new routines, live super consciously, take part in more things, go on micro-adventures and try more, generally just try. More. I am aware of the pressure this may cause me though, so I'll take it slow. And reflect as I go. 

Thanks for reading. 

G. x