A Semi-Fond Farewell

So this is how it ends. My time on 35 Palmer Street comes to an abrupt halt, and I'm packing my things, and moving on.

It's not that I really want to leave. It's not that I want to live at home again. It's a change that may have been a long time coming... and obvious to some.

Don't get me wrong. I'm going to miss that apartment more than anything, and sure, it bothers me how quickly things change hands and get replaced, but I'm not here to dig for sympathy or make people wish it were different. I'm writing for myself, for closure, and for anyone who cares to listen.

Rewind to July 2009. I move in, and within weeks, everyone is getting along like we had all known each other for years. We were having some great times, making great memories. I thought I had found friends for life.

The months go by, and things deteriorated. Fast.

Enter January 2010, and the shift takes place. Suddenly, I lose my job and the person I had thought to be my life partner. Depressed and out of touch, I tried to search for solace in the people around me.

I then realized that the people I had met, for the most part, saw me as little more than a paycheck at the end of the month. Someone filling up a room. It got to the point that my personal property and space were violated on an almost daily basis. Things were broken, stolen, missing, or abused.

My room became a smoking zone, and I reduced myself to sleeping on the couch due to the stench and cold. I faced constant harassment about my financial situation. I was paying bills on time, but was treated like a homeless man sleeping on the couch. Mutual respect between me and certain people I lived with faded, and I began to realize that no one ever had my back, and everyone was ready to sell my spot to the highest bidder.

I was treated as though I did not have equal say in anything. I would kindly ask people not to do things and was laughed at. I couldn't win; I felt dejected.

Saturday, February 6th came around. Hanging out at a friend's house, I asked if he would mind if I slept on his couch instead of going home. I contemplated sleeping at my parents' house. Either way, I felt unwelcome in my own apartment. I felt as though I had no place to call home.

I eventually got back to the apartment, sick and wanting to go to bed, to find people blatantly disrespecting my property. A beer pong game was being played my mother's dining room table (which I always respectfully asked them to put a table cloth over, and there was no cloth this time), and when I asked someone to clean up their puke off the floor, I was told that they would take it up with my roommate, since "he lived there".

Something inside of me realized at that precise moment that no one ever saw me as an equal at 35 Palmer Street. I was not a roommate, a friend, or even a person worthy of being treated with decency. I was a monthly rent check for $60 more than everyone else, and for less respect.

And so I had to pack my bags. Sure I'm sad, who wouldn't be? I'll miss my time at 35 Palmer Street. I really don't think life will be the same for me ever again.

So I have to say goodbye. I wish things were different. I'm sorry they weren't. I'll miss all of you.