I’m willing to bet money that you thought I was dead. I’m even willing to bet money that some of you were hoping I was dead. Clearly if I’m not blogging then I must be laying in a ditch somewhere (side note: why is our collective default “dead in a ditch?” I legitimately couldn’t tell you the last time I saw a ditch in real life.) Luckily for you, though, I am not dead. I’m alive and well okay, just alive.

My negligence the last few weeks is inexcusable and I apologize for any inconvenience. Please see the hostess on your way out for a $20 coupon off your next meal (exclusions apply).

The reason I briefly went MIA (that’s military talk or something) is that my life seems to have spiraled into chaos. You might think I’m being a little dramatic (what?! Me?! Dramatic?! If you ever say that I again I WILL KILL AND EAT EVERYTHING YOU’VE EVER LOVED) but things have gotten a little nutso in Patrick World and I needed to let some dust settle.

There are lots of Stressors In Action (SIA) in my life at the moment. I’d like to present those to you now…

Things that are messing up my whole life

• My housing situation
• My crap diet
• My training at the gym
• My lack of writing
• My lack of career
• My lack of a love life
• My lack of direction
• Stranger Things 2

Things 2 through 7 are perennial obstructions to my long-term goal of ruling the entire universe. Thing 8 is simply the result of Stranger Things being so freaking good that I can’t stand it for even a second. That show makes me want to be a cool 13 year-old again (and when I say “again” I mean for the first time because I was many things by age 13 but cool wasn’t one of them).

That leaves us with Thing 1, which is my living situation. In order to understand the intricate and longwinded nature of this story, you need a little history lesson.

It was December of 2014 when I packed up my life in Los Angeles and schlepped my broke ass back to Atlanta upon realizing that dreams are a waste of time (kidding…sorta). My mom, with only minor hesitation, opened up Casa del Donohue to me while I got my feet back on the ground. It was an offer I gladly accepted. I had zero dollars and zero prospects. Wherever I went I saw a big giant zero in the sky. Living with my mom seemed like the most dignified way to avoid homelessness.

In spite of acknowledging that giant zero in my future, I still managed to put myself on an aggressive timeline. After 6 weeks I would force myself to leave my madre’s (that’s Spanish) casa (also Spanish). For some reason, deep inside that bucket of dysfunctional synapses I call a brain, I figured 6 weeks was a reasonable amount time to “get it together.” It’s possible I was high on cold medicine when I concocted this idea.

Here are some questions you may have about that 6-week timeline:

“But Patrick weren’t you broke when you moved back to Atlanta?”

“Weren’t you without a job?”

“Weren’t you seeing a big fat ZERO in the skyline of your future?”

“How can you fix all that in 6 weeks!?”

Dear reader you are correct on all counts. According to the internet, both money and a job are highly encouraged (nay, necessary) for a young man to move out of his mommy’s house and get his own apartment. 6 weeks may have been far too ambitious in order to rectify these. So I found myself in a conundrum.

Those 6 weeks flew by so fast I got whiplash. Clearly I didn’t have my life together yet. As my deadline approached, I allowed myself the kindness of extending it a few more weeks. Let’s say 12. Then those 12 weeks turned into 4 months, then 5 months, then 6 months, etc. Pretty soon it’s September and I’m feeling the claws of hopelessness and despair burrowing their way into my psyche. Yes, I had a job. Yes, I had a little bit of cash. But for some reason inertia had taken over and I couldn’t take the leap.

My despondency ran deep as September rolled over into October. One morning I sat quietly in the same bedroom I had when I was in high school. I was 26. As the early-day sun illuminated the boxes in the corner that contained a life-in-transition, a deep truth settled on me: it really is time. My mother had been generous enough. If I was going to move forward in my life I had to move out.

I hit the ground running and within 72 hours I found a one-bedroom, paid the deposit, and signed a lease.

Twas All Hollow’s Eve in the year 2015 when I moved into my very first solo apartment. No sharing, no roommates, no co-signer. My brother-in-law helped move all the crappy future and boxes full of useless things I somehow thought were important enough to keep in storage for 10 months. (For the record, please don’t feel sorry for my BIL because I’ve helped him with every single move/house project/child-watching task that’s been thrown my way)

As I closed the door behind him, I sat down and took emotional and domestic inventory. My eyes surveyed the quaintest one-bedroom apartment any human had ever seen. Boxes littered the place and painted a picture of peaceful chaos. It was 500 square feet of old hardwood floors, creaky doors, fickle air conditioning units, and hardly enough kitchen counter space. I was home. It was mine.

Until that moment, I always cohabitated with others, family or roommates or sociopaths named Rose (true story). This was going to be different. Everything in that apartment was mine. I could decorate the space however I desired. I could be naked all over the place. I could have friend gatherings where we drink wine and discuss subjects such as art, history, and the Kardashians. I could even have a “grown-up” sleepover (grown up = without a bedtime, you dirty birdie).

Over the course of two years, that apartment became my refuge. It was my space to write and think and sing and pray and cook and sleep and Netflix (no chill) and daydream. Like many of my attempted endeavors, the space was never “completed.” There was one whole wall where I intended to hang up a self-made canvas art piece (supplies purchased but the project never commenced). On numerous occasions I shopped for multi-colored rugs but never bought one. There were two boxes that never once got opened during their two years in that apartment.

The place wasn’t perfect. I’m not perfect. However, it was comfortable and it suited me during that particular stage of my life. My time is L.A. got rough but it was a mere annoyance compared to the violent clusterfuck that was my life upon returning to Atlanta. I had little-to-no clarity about my future and this new direction (not to be confused with One Direction, the Irish pop boy-band sensation). Nevertheless I muddled through the muck and carved out a life for myself in the 3 years of being back. That apartment played an important role.

Fast forward to the first week of September (i.e. two months ago) where I received a letter from my apartment manager. My lease was up on All Hollow’s Eve and they presented me with several “lease renewal options.” To renew my lease for another 12 months would have been a $100 per month increase from what I was currently paying. That’s a 13% jump. It was a jaw-dropping amount because hello broke actor/writer. I was already stretched thin with rent (plus all utilities because nothing was included). When I read that letter I felt shock which turned into sadness which turned into anger which turned into sheer unadulterated rage which turned into the dark side.

I was pissed! How dare they?! How could they expect me to make a 13% increase in rent? My income sure as hell didn’t jump that much. This was gentrification at it’s finest. It was greed. It was the wealthy moving in and shoving poor, artistic, and occasionally useful people like myself out. They were going to charge that much for rent because they could. They knew the system was in their favor and people with real jobs, 401(k)s, and health insurance would move in and pay whatever it was they were charging. I wanted to scream. I wanted to rage against the man. I wanted action and change. I wanted my local government to take note about this injustice and fix it. So what did I do?

Literally nothing.

I waited until the last possible second and politely gave them my 30-days notice.

This meant I would need to find a place to live that was not the quaintest 500 square foot apartment any human had ever laid eyes on. My options seemed limited because I didn’t have the necessary funds to move into a new apartment (deposit, first months, last months, middle months, finder’s fee, Ender’s game, Pan’s Labyrinth, you get the picture).

It boiled down to two possibilities: find someone who needed/wanted/tolerated a roommate or move back into Casa del Donohue.

While neither of these were terribly appealing after the joy of having my own apartment, I had to bite the bullet. I talked with my mom ad nauseam about moving back in with her. After much deliberation we determined that was not the best option for either of us. Initially I thought she said an outright “no” to the idea. Imagine my surprise. It was only after we talked more that I realized her “no” was actually a “no, please.” We both agreed it isn’t too healthy for a 28-year-old able-bodied man to be living with his mommy. Besides, we should probably wait for the apocalypse where we’ll be forced to live together anyway and fight off zombies together.

That left me with the alternative to the alternative, which was to find someone who needed a roommate. I put out a few feelers that led me to nada, zilch, nothing, no-go. A slow panic started to settle into my bones. Come hell or high water, I was moving out in less than 3 weeks and I didn’t yet know where to. **gulp sound**

That’s when I texted Tia, a friend I’ve known from the gym for about a year. She’s one of the most chill humans I know but she’s also social; a good thing for someone like myself who tends toward agoraphobia. I knew she was going through a breakup and, in my complete narcissism, thought she would benefit from a roommate during this difficult transition. Who better than me to serve that purpose?

Lo and behold, Tia loved the idea and told me to schlep myself on down to her condo. I double, triple, and quadruple checked with her that this arrangement was okay. Eventually she told me to chill my bones and that this was going to be a great thing.

So on the last Sunday of October I gathered all my earthly possessions, threw them into black trash bags, and hauled ass two miles down the road to Tia’s condo. The move itself was exhausting because I’m too cheap to hire movers. Fortunately, an actual angel from the heavens above helped me out. My friend Jas, who happens to be a crossfitter, agreed to help me in exchange for a few of my furniture pieces she wanted. So the two of us relocated my life from one end of town to the other. It was a long day. I rewarded us with Mexican food. Done.

So that’s where we are folks. A few weeks have gone by and I’m settling in. I’m writing this post from my bed (with newly purchased fancy sheets) in my friend Tia’s condo. Things still feel very chaotic, as boxes need to be unpacked and their contents find a home where they will probably be forgotten about until I move again. I’ve been here before though. I know the drill. Chaos eventually gives way to routine. In the meantime, at least I have a roof over my head.

The biggest challenge isn’t accepting that I’m in a new place but accepting that I left behind another place; a much loved and quirky little one-bedroom. It was home during a tumultuous, exciting, scary, contentment-seeking, joyful two years. I need to grieve the end of that. A chapter has closed. I need to sit in stillness and offer up gratitude for what it was and where it got me.