Seven years in this apartment. Seven fucking years. I arrived in Portland at the end of February 2017 at my lowest of lows, slept on the floor of my friend's basement for two months, got a job at a local startup, and moved in here in May.
This apartment has been where I did professional work (almost entirely except for most of my ~15 months at that startup), did game history/digital preservation work (including Game Mag Print Ads, Rando Chrontendo, my videos, and archiving), dated/slept with people, lived through COVID, and realized I was trans.
Despite that, I never really felt of here. I never really felt like I inhabited this apartment or was anything more than a temporary Portland resident. It's just been a space I've occupied while I figured out my myriad of bullshit. I have a certain amount of attachment to this stage of my life that's ending, but no real emotions towards this home. There's no difficult goodbyes.
I've already written about some of the specifics of this era of my life, and I think that when I reflect on this time in the future, those will be the parts I remember. These years were about doing the work on myself, not where I did it.
That being said, I can't fucking wait to leave.