for the purposes of this question “alone” means you had exclusive access to a shower, toilet, cooktop, fridge, and bed (or whatever you sleep on) with some physical barrier between you and any other occupants of the building. living with a partner is not alone. use your judgement on edge cases- i don’t want to hear “well my roommate moved out and my new roommate didn’t move in for a week” as a yes
I lived alone for a brief period, just a few months, between ages 19-20. It was my first time living independently from my family. My then-boyfriend K. & I got a 1BR apartment – the relationship had already turned sour tbh, but we thought our problems were mostly external (e.g., parents who “don’t understand”) and that living together would help (lol). Within a couple months, he had lost his job and I was supporting us on my meager income (part time at the library and part-time at Blockbuster Video, while attending community college). Some time after that, I discovered by accident (pesky recent search history!) that he’d been loafing around at home looking at porn on my computer from literally the minute I walked out the door in the morning until I got home at night, and not, as he’d repeatedly promised, pounding the pavement looking for a new job all day. I didn’t break up with him right away — he was my first serious boyfriend, I was young & inexperienced, and (forever a recovering Catholic) I felt guilty and shameful about having lost my virginity to someone who wasn’t my “forever” love – but thankfully I didn’t drag it out too long. Soon, the relationship was really over, he moved angrily back to his mom’s house down the street, of course leaving most of his clutter, an excuse/threat to return at some indeterminate time in the future; I eventually packed up his shit myself and left it by the front door to reduce the chance of confrontation. I still remember when he finally came to pick his stuff up, wearing a leather jacket and slouching dramatically like king shit, scowling in the doorway: “I hope you’re happy with yourself,” like an angry father scolding a misbehaving child.
& god, I still remember the feeling of having the place to myself for the first time. It was an apartment on the second floor of a quadruplex: three rooms, shotgun layout, landlord-special white walls that we’d ruined with putty stains because we weren’t allowed to use thumbtacks to hang posters. It was an unseasonably warm day in March and I threw open the windows to smell the fresh air. It was probably less than a month until my 20th birthday. I felt a sense of freedom I’ve never fully experienced before – I mean, partly this may have been the novelty of youthful independence, before I’d get worn down by future traumas & decades of paycheck-to-paycheck living. But for now – I could listen to whatever music I wanted and there would be no comments or judgement or complaints from the peanut gallery. I could eat whatever I wanted and, like, do the dishes right away. I could decorate however I wanted. I put on a library CD of Southern folk music (I thiiink it might’ve been The Mississippi River of Song), laid on the couch and read a book until I dozed off. Waking up later that afternoon to my best friend knocking at the door – another new joy: we could hang out as much as we wanted, speak openly all the time in my own house, even have sleepovers! (Full disclosure: WE LOVED EACH OTHER!!! Still do:)
I only spent maybe three months living completely on my own. In June of that year, I moved into a house with said best friend and the rest of my life started happening, etc., etc. Since age 20, I’ve always lived with a partner and/or in a communal situation. I don’t exactly regret my serial monogamist tendencies but I do have some regret that I never lived really by myself again… In particular, I occasionally still kick myself for letting the abusive alcoholic move back in with me after we’d done a half-assed separation period in 2010, three years into our ultimately five-year relationship. I was 26 then, old enough to know better, but not yet strong enough to stand up for myself. I told him we weren’t getting back together unless he quit drinking; he had six months to get his shit together, but didn’t do much about it (that I could tell) until checking himself into rehab like the weekend before move-in. Voluntarily checked himself out after a very short time, and stayed sober for maybe a couple weeks before relapsing, but by then, of course, I was trapped. Or I saw myself as trapped, because how do you kick out a man who parks his ass on the couch, opens a handle of vodka, and simply refuses to leave? That was such a cute little place, too, a two-storey carriage house tucked back in the yard at the end of a gravel driveway, in a neighborhood that reminded me of my own childhood back in Pittsburgh, all crumbling sidewalks & overgrown foliage. My writing desk, as always, was positioned so I could look directly out the upstairs window so it felt like I was in a treehouse. It would have been the absolute perfect home for a single 20-something trying to put her life back together, but alas, I was a dumbass.