Well, it's official. I moved into my own place this past Saturday. Immediately after I was finished moving in, I felt ill. My parents had been sick for the past week, and I told my body it just wasn't going to happen, so it didn't. As soon as it knew it was okay to get sick, it did. Instead of unpacking and tidying on Sunday, I went to walmart and grabbed a couple of things sick people need (soup, juice, tylenol) and then I spent the rest of the day in bed with a cup of tea and a copy of James and the Giant Peach. It was glorious, in its own right. By the way, it should be noted that walmart is not busy on a Sunday morning. Normally, I'm nervous driving a cart through there, but not this time.
I thought I was going to feel sad and lonely immediately after everyone left. Granted, I've only been here a couple of days, but I haven't felt anything remotely close to that. Sometimes, when I'm dozing off or waking up, I make an effort to imagine I'm back in my bed at my parents' house, in the same room with all my things, as I'd slept so many times before. My feelings when I do this are entirely neutral; there's no gnawing desire to go back, no twinge of regret. After I've pulled myself out of it, I find myself smiling, and then rolling over in my soft sheets.
Having lived in the country, I was slightly worried that the sounds of the city would bother me, particularly being so close to a major road. There's always traffic, sirens occur frequently, and some of my neighbours enjoy music. The sounds here don't bother me, because I know they're not aimed at me. When I hear something, I don't have to stop and make sure someone isn't talking to me, or that someone's come home, or pulled in the driveway. I ignore these sounds, and they ignore me. I listened to some music a little bit when I got home yesterday, but for the most part, it's been about peace and quiet.
It's not quite a home yet, but it'll get there.