Marks Left Behind

“As you move through this life and this world, you change things slightly; you leave marks behind, however small.”

– Anthony Bourdain

June 2022. I vacuum my apartment one last time. Check for anything accidentally left behind. My car is packed full with the last of my things. I’ve scrubbed the fridge and removed the nails from the walls – but there are marks I’m leaving behind.

Every nail hole for a frame I’ve hung, most were photos from trips I’ve taken around the world – travel I was never brave enough to attempt until I became the me that lived here. A scuffed line on the entire wall going down the hallway, about an inch above the carpet – from the walker I had to use when I broke my leg and missed that trip to the Caribbean. A light burn mark in the bedroom carpet, from the night I forgot I left my hair straightener on. A chip in the plaster on the living room wall, from the night I dd’ed for my parents and my dad fell and broke one of his ribs (along with one of my beloved glasses from my trip to China).

Small things, these marks left behind. Small enough that I didn’t get charged for them out of my security deposit – yet, each one holds a memory for me that can’t be erased. Even though my keys are turned in, and even as I know logically that maintenance will patch the holes, probably put in new carpet, and repaint…This apartment meant something to me. Six years. I’ve changed so much in six years.

When I moved in to this apartment, it was with tears and heartache from a breakup and what felt like the biggest betrayal I had ever faced. What little decor I owned felt like remnants of a shared style developed with my ex, instead of something uniquely my own. I remember the first night I spent there, sitting on the couch we had bought together and sobbing, wondering how I was ever going to find myself again and feel worthy, strong, and independent, in place of the codependent loser I saw myself as. I felt lost and afraid.

Now, I look back and see what was meant to be. How I found my own style, my own voice in this space. I chose accents and decorated only for myself. Learned how to cook for myself. Learned how to spend time alone again, find joy in hobbies or TV shows that weren’t catered to someone else’s preferences. I befriended a ton of my neighbors, who welcomed me in as family. I made the major leap to finally take an international trip on my own, sick of waiting around for someone to go with me. I survived a pandemic in this place. In this apartment I lived for myself and healed myself in a way I hadn’t before. I dated other men, had another serious relationship, and healed from that too, when it ended. I got myself back into therapy, where I began to deal with the emotional fallout of being in a rather controlling and emotionally and verbally abusive relationship, along with my own anxious attachments and messed up sense of self worth resulting from that. I made new friends, started working in a new school, and slowly but surely built a life I felt content with.

And now? Now, I’m moving again…because of a man, again. Yet this time it’s not a mad dash to get out of a toxic situation; it’s the opposite – a purposeful decision. And it feels joyful and nerve wracking and miraculous. No matter where the future leads me, I’m ready for it…the good, the bad, and the magical every day moments in between. It’s bittersweet to leave this apartment, but I will hold the memories close and continue to honor the version of Jill I evolved into while here. This apartment and I will both have marks left behind from my time there.