1437

though a certain magic lingers in old buildings, there is no detectable significance in the bricks, sheetrock, tall windows, concrete floors, and high ceilings of apartment 1437. and yet, it's one of the most important spaces i’ve inhabited.

the man who moved in was not the one who moved out.

1437 became my address two months after asking my ex-wife for a divorce. i had a temporary stay at a friend’s place while he was in africa those two months which happened to line up perfectly. his space offered me the room to think clearly and air out my open wounds. the move into 1437 came with a feeling of finality in my decision - if there was ever any chance of going back on my decision, it was gone.

perhaps the hardest day of divorce was the morning we sorted the kitchen along with the entire inventory of my and her belongings.

are you taking the chili powder or am i?
what about that avocado-shaped salsa bowl my mom gave us?
who paid for this chair again?
do you want the half-pint of ice cream in the freezer?

it’s unbelievably difficult to imagine what use you will have for cookware when you’re nauseous from the nerves and the thought of ever eating again twists your guts.

i lived alone in the past but i was an alcoholic then. a big part of me was worried i would revert to my 20yr old ways of staying up til 2am every night drinking myself to sleep, so anxious - scared of every noise and what could be lurking in the dark. self worth was scarce those days as was my will to live.

will i become an alcoholic again?
will i live alone forever?
will i be forgotten?

i was afraid to live alone and face the quiet, the darkness of 4am when no one in the world knows you're awake. the rainy sunday afternoon with no plans when no one calls.

this fear conspired with others to keep me married. it's exactly what i knew i needed to face and learn to cope with.

to my surprise, which seems hilarious now, the 29yr old who moved into 1437 retained his sobriety, nutrition, friendships, and the habits that kept him healthy and sane. the new retreat into my private cave gave me room to process what the hell had just happened. those walls watched me grieve and lose my shit and break down, shed the identity of a husband trying to keep it all together, and find out who robert was again. i haven’t cried like that since i lost my dad. in fact, i found that old grief was neighbors with this new grief and they liked to hang out.

i discovered through this process exactly how much emotional pain one can tolerate along with what felt like a secret: once the siege of grief has it’s way with you, it gives way invariably to gratitude. every time. after allowing the pain to fully consume you like a forest fire it subsides allowing sprigs of new growth to poke through the scorched earth. but the scorching always comes first and will not be skipped.

as i brought in new furniture and made the space my own, my sense of self started to restore. working the steps of ACA didn’t hurt either. i burned incense, drank gallons of tea, and listened to east forest on repeat as i journaled and rebuilt. i spent a small fortune on plants and silverware and a locally made sofa and art and handmade ceramics - items that represented the care i was giving myself. i started cooking again. i rode my bike through greenville's parks. the simple joy of bringing home high quality produce from the local grocery became a highlight of my weekends. washing my dishes felt like a gift.

i was repairing.
the future was accessible.
it was bright.

i’m so grateful for the dear friends who came over and loved on me in that period. i took polaroids of them and hung them on the fridge to remind me i’m not alone in this world, though it felt like it.

quickly i came to enjoy the peace of solitude. i would crave it when i was away. it the first time i could remember enjoying being home in years. i understood finally why people become home bodies. i could do whatever the hell i wanted.

i used to dread the coin toss waiting on me when i walked in the door. the potential for chaos - the eggshells i would tip toe around. now that was gone. my fear of being alone seemed silly.

as ram dass says, how could you possibly be alone?
there are billions of us.

loneliness is a feeling like hunger- if you wait it out, it passes, just like all feelings. my whole life i’d been afraid of overwhelming emotions. i learned how to ride them like waves, trusting they all eventually pass, the peaks and troughs alike. i had no doubt about who i was or wanted to be in the world. clarity arrived and became me closest friend.

as karl and i got closer, 1437 gave us a sanctuary to be present with each other in the quiet and build our relationship. playing vol. it housed her + moon and levi (the kitties) when hurricane helene forced her out of black mountain. it gave us a blank slate to build something new.

it made room for me to take a chance at loving again. terrified, i opened myself to this incredible woman.

this space will hold a special corner in my heart.
it taught me how to build a sanctuary and that’s exactly what we’ve done in the new home we’re making together.

i am not alone in this world.
nor do i fear loneliness,
thanks to my time at 1437