During the divorce our house sold quickly, and I moved into a small apartment in another part of town.
When I would return to the apartment at the end of the day, I’d drop my keys onto my table and mutter, “I’m 53 years old, and I’m all alone in this little apartment.”
Then I’d shuffle into the kitchen, find something easy to eat, take it to the sofa, turn on the TV, and stare at whatever program was on, letting the noise keep me company.
At the beginning of my apartment-living time, most days were bad, really bad.
Then, one morning I woke up, looked around my room, stretched out my arms, and proclaimed, “I’m 53 years old, and I’m all alone in this little apartment!”
What had happened to create such a dramatic change? I wish I knew.
I didn’t have an “ah-ha” moment. I wasn’t inspired by a beautiful sunset, though sunsets are certainly inspiring. I think it was an accumulation of small things, like talks with good friends and a therapist, and feeling safe in a space that was my own. Maybe I was slowly coming back to myself, and that caused this short burst of enthusiasm. Maybe it was a glimpse of my future that snuck in when I wasn’t paying attention. Though there would still be some dark days ahead, it was the first time since the divorce had begun that I experienced hope and dare I say, even a bit of joy.
There is much about those apartment days that I don’t remember, but that morning, noticing the narrow slices of sunshine sliding through the bedroom blinds was all I needed to know I would make it through this time in my life.