I moved to New York about a month ago.
To say that it's been an adjustment has been an understatement. I've never had a public commute option before, and now it's my only option. Getting my prescriptions has been a hell that I will write about sometime when I don't think it will make me cry again. I have lost a lot of weight, and it's mostly because I am too unsure of how to grocery shop, and get sticker shock or overwhelmed by people and run away a lot.
Of everything, the hardest adjustment has been my apartment.
In my previous home, I lived in a house, by myself, with my dog. Sometimes my boyfriend would spend the night and when we woke up we would go into the massive kitchen together and cook breakfast and then eat it on the patio. I paid 350 a month (utilities included) for this luxury.
I now share a 3 bedroom in the pits of Brooklyn with two other girls. I rented the place without seeing it, because...well. I had to. I was moving across state lines and all that. When I moved in I realized I had made a big mistake. I'm only given the key to my bedroom. The front door is to be left open at all times. This is so our landlord can come wandering through and and get his stuff out of storage. Which is basically what he uses our apartment for.
He has never cleaned the place in between tenants. And since each room is rented individually, you can imagine how bad the place has become over the years. The fridge was full of food that had long since rotted. The shower was coated in black mold and full of shower products that no longer belonged to anyone. It was unclear as to what color the bathroom tile had once been.
I'm a clean freak by nature and by nurture and because that thing about rape victims cleaning when they feel bad has an element of truth to it and sometimes when I have nightmares I'll sit in the bathtub and scrub till I can't think anymore. But with school, commuting, quidditch, and everything else...I hadn't had time to clean. My roommates were no help. Since they moved in the place was actually getting progressively worse, and I lived in fear of the bathroom.
Finally, I put my headphones on and started cleaning.
And slowly...they emerged from their bedrooms. At first they approached with caution. clearly unsure as to what I was doing. Maybe they thought I was angry cleaning. Maybe they thought I had just finally lost it. But around the time I started rocking the white girl mop dance they felt comfortable enough to approach me.
They weren't cleaning because they didn't know how or when to.
But they followed my lead exactly, and eight hours later our tiny apartment is no longer in danger of being condemned. Plus, we kind of talked for the first time ever.
Despite sometimes yelling at their boyfriends via phone at 1 in the morning and smoking in the kitchen when they think I won't notice....they're pretty cool.
I kind of want to cry. That's how happy I am. I cannot express how wonderful it is to have a clean place to relax in.
But out of curiosity...my finger tips now hurt very badly. Does anyone know what this could be caused by? Started during/after the cleaning.