Rental Dementia: This Could be the Place

I was shot—mentally, emotionally, and physically spent. For me, December had a hazy blur of anxiety mixed with a mild case of depression. Every task, simple or heavy, was unbearable and leaving the apartment was a chore. I hit the wall—hard. It was a bad case of “when will this fucking year end?” I needed to get out of town. I couldn’t even talk about real estate without my hands shaking.

The best advice I ever got about living in New York was to get out when I could. Take breaks from the city and you’ll manage it better. I offer that same advice to those preparing to cram a new life into a small apartment. Get out when you can. There’s life beyond this island, and it is intelligent. New York is exciting, but it’ll beat you up and cloud your peace of mind. Sometimes you just have to go home.

It’s always been hard for me to call New York “home.” It’s never really been “my town.” Let’s face it though, it’s no one’s town. It’s too big. Whatever you’ve accomplished in New York, whatever industry you’ve conquered, a thousand other people are on the verge of doing the same. Take a breath, take a nap and you’ll need to do it all over again. Smaller cities, Philadelphia for example, can offer a more “my town” feeling. It’s small enough to carve out a niche, an identity, something to call your own. Not New York. You’ll only ever be one of the many here. That may be one of the city’s charms—one of those things that supposedly make it great—but it can be a crushing feeling too. I need to feel home now and again. Nevertheless, my initial escape from my hometown was a pivotal life moment.

I don’t know when it dawned on me. I’m not sure if there was an exact moment when I realized I couldn’t stay in the place where I was born. College had something to do with it, but I have plenty of friends who went away only to eventually return home. I guess one thing led to another and I discovered different people and other places—at first, by necessity. Some anger and pride also helped move me along. Ambition and a terrifying feeling of getting stuck in my hometown was also useful. Occasionally, I was paralyzed by the idea of never getting out, of being one of those people still hanging around the local bar, still telling the same old stories. One of those people whom life passed by quickly and painfully. Not me, I was going to get out. First to Philadelphia, and then to New York. I didn’t have any real design.

In Brooklyn, I have what could almost be called a “home.” It’s a cozy, sunny one bedroom in a great neighborhood. I live with my girlfriend. She put up pictures, a mirror, drapes and what not. We have Polaroid’s on our fridge next to pictures drawn in crayon by nieces and nephews. We have books, chairs, lots of pillows, a down comforter and a cheap, but broken-in couch. We have friends, jobs and responsibilities. We also talk about having kids. This should feel more like home.

I’ve been back to my hometown plenty of times. It isn’t that far away. Growing up we had a very lively house with an open door. Our friends felt comfortable there and all kinds of people dropped by. But it’s different now. I’ve got a funny family. My sisters make me laugh, my brothers are hysterical and no one gives a shit about what I’ve been up to. It took me awhile to accept that, but now I enjoy the fact that we just like being around each other. I’m lucky, so even New York isn’t enough to cure me of feeling homesick.

So it was that wonderful week between Christmas and New Years I spent with family and old friends at home: morning walks with my dog along the Delaware River; going to parties with my younger brothers on small cobblestone streets in Philadelphia; breakfast with my mom, and puzzles with my dad. I can’t help but ask myself: Can I come back now? Can I set up a life here and make it my new old home? Wouldn’t it be nice to have a yard, a house, an upstairs or just some goddamned space in which to think and move?

No one moves to New York to fall in love or to build a home. Those areas generally become byproducts of other work-related opportunities. We rent apartments as a way to get started. Condos are investments, the smart thing to do. But it’s all temporary housing while we pursue our goals.

I’m back in New York now. The daydream is over and this life I’ve chosen has started all over again. I’m busy and I love it. For now, I’ll abandon my questions of whether or not to finally settle down back in suburbia some day. Right now, I’ve got a lot of work to do here.