The first thing I did to my room was ripping that nasty carpet. In the afternoon, the old tenant came to pick up his old mattress and was surprised at how fast my dad and I were working.
That first night, I slept on the floor, perhaps on a yoga mat, or maybe on a camping inflatable pad. It's hard to remember the floor. I do remember the sex moans from the downstairs room, and my sneezes, as all the old floor particles, leftovers not yet eaten by termites welcomed my lungs.
But, perhaps what I remember the most was the fear.
Fear of getting settled, fear of enjoying it, fear of the unknown.
Fear for my van. I remember parking my van a block away from my room. It is a safe area. But I didn't feel that way. I remember grabbing my sleeping bag, my duck-teddybear Pedro and my mate set. I remember being over-cumbered. I remember locking all the doors and then doing my routine check that all five doors are locked.
Is my van going to be safe out here in the dark, all by itself? Would it feel lonely? Am I hurting their feelings? I wanted to give the structure that protected me for three years a big hug, somehow make it into a plush animal and snuggle it into my new bed. I felt separation anxiety, leaving my old snail shell behind.
The next morning, I affirmed the fact that I could cook breakfast standing up, and that I could breathe fresh air. I never take for granted, the marvels of being housed.
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