During my weekly pain therapist visit yesterday, my doctor and I started to discuss why the time I spend alone is so important to me. I shared that it was just nice to enjoy the quiet, that I wasn’t used to having a space to call my own. Indeed it was true in the sense that this is the first time I’ve lived alone in over 12 years.

The last time I rented my very own apartment I was living in Auckland, New Zealand, back in 2004. It had been right after winning that lucky scratch-and-win crossword, and I had found a cute, furnished, ground floor flat that I rented from an elderly woman living above. It wasn’t very big, the kitchen only boasted a hot plate, there was a washing machine in the tiny bathroom, and a line to hang laundry in the cold, damp yard. But it was mine. Mine. The first apartment I ever rented on my own. I loved it.

When I finally came back to the U.S. after my escapades in Europe in 2005, and decided on California, I couldn’t afford living on my own for longer than 6 months, and I eventually moved in with roommates. This was to be continued for five years until my boyfriend of the time and I got our own place. But living with a boyfriend is not at all like living on your own. You still share a kitchen, which means you’re the only one that ever does the dishes… You share a bathroom, which means you’re always picking up someone else’s wet towels off the floor… You share a bedroom, which means the bed only gets made by you…. Or at least that’s how it was for me.

When I moved back to Hawaii in 2011, alone, I went right back to living with roommates again. It wasn’t until last August when my living options ran dry, and I moved into my apartment paid for by the generosity of others, that I was finally on my own again. And what an astounding luxury it was!

What a treat to be able to go to bed whenever I felt like it, and not be kept up by a tv in the other room, or a loud discussion though the walls. How lovely it was to use a kitchen filled only with MY appliances and cookware. To make a cup of tea at 2am and not be worried if I was waking anyone up. The sheer joy of walking completely naked from my bedroom to bathroom without fear of discovery. These were things I’d never take for granted again.

My doctor pointed out that I had finally obtained my own ‘sanctuary’. Yes, what a perfect word. A sanctuary is exactly what my home is. I adore coming home from wherever I’ve been and relaxing on my couch and turning the tv on to something I want to watch on Netflix. I love laying down on my bed to play with my cats and taking an impromptu nap just because I can, and because my body demands it. I never have to worry about having clothes on, or working off of anyone’s schedule but mine.
I love my bedroom, and the way my king size bed takes up amongst the entirety of the space. I love my shower and the fact that no one makes fun of my seven different shower gels (variety is the spice of life). I love my gas stove, and cooking whatever I want to eat. And I love love love the relaxing nature of my little living room, with my newly acquired used couch, piled high with blankets and cushions for ultimate tv viewing pleasure.
It’s mine. All of it. And I have no desire to share.
There, I’ve admitted it, it’s true. I rarely invite others over to my home. If you have spent time there you should really take it as a very good sign. Because I like my space. I like everything in its place and not to be moved. My cats love their favorite spots on the couch and coffee table. And together we share our domestic bliss.
Of course I have friends and family over from time to time. Just last weekend I had a married couple over that I know for pizza and videogames. And what a fun day it was. Even more fun when the day had ended and my sanctuary was mine alone once again.

My home is my sanctuary. My sanctuary. I am comfortable there, so please help me stay there.

If you would like to visit my donation page to help me stay in my sanctuary, please visit Christine Lilley’s Life Fund. All donations are greatly appreciated. Thank you.

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