Homie
I have a housemate now. Well, for a week. Askin has come up from Bodrum for work, and has stuck around Istanbul a bit longer because of a girl. This is his apartment, of course, so he’s staying in it.
I was a little worried at first. I haven’t shared a living space with anyone I wasn’t related or married to for so long (although, for the purposes of our landlady, Askin and I are, in fact, engaged). But soon, I’m reminded of the joys of having a housemate. Like those spontaneous conversations that pop up on breaks while you are both pretending to work.
“The casher at the supermarket asked if I had a loyalty card,” I called out one morning, unloading my groceries in the kitchen. “I said no, and then the guy at the next cash leans over and gives the cashier his card number.”
“And?” Askin asked from his desk in the next room.
“That would NEVER happen in Canada.”
“Why not?”
I came around the corner and stared at him.
“Well, people would find it rude.”
“Why? You get your groceries, he gets the points.”
“I… don’t know why.”
He laughed. “What kind of country do you come from?”
I shrugged and went back into the kitchen. These days, I am less and less able to answer that question.
It’s Askin’s birthday this week. His new girlfriend, whom he met almost exactly when I met the poet, spent the night. Django greeted her the way he greets everyone, barking as if our home is being invaded by a SWAT team, and then we hid discreetly in my room. The next morning, I snuck out quietly for breakfast.
“Happy full moon eclipse birthday, darling, ” I texted Askin, from a restaurant down the street.
“Thank you, dear. I’m going to jump in the shower and get some breakfast.”
“If you fancy joining me, it’s my shout.”
He showed up 15 minutes later, and I smiled at his dishevelled appearance.
“There was a bit of drama last night, but we figured it out. There are always going to be disagreements, right? It’s how you get through them.”
“Right,” I said, as if I, too, am wise and calm in the ways of relationships.
“I do feel a bit freaked out, though.”
I tried to be both present and reassuring. Later that day, back home, a bouquet of flowers arrived from his girlfriend. He asked me to take a photo of him holding them, then put them in a vase on the coffee table in the living room. Neither of us said it, but I think we both felt a bit of relief.
It’s my mom’s birthday this week, too.
I’ve been missing her lately. We don’t have much of a relationship, so missing might not be the right word. Grieving? Wishing I could share with her about the poet, and about my life in Istanbul—that we could talk about the beauty and the chaos of a city as complicated as the one she grew up in.
I am learning, slowly, how not being able to connect with our primary caregiver impacts our ability to connect with ourselves.
I talk about this with Askin on his podcast, which we record, coincidentally, on my mother’s birthday. The podcast is stories of people who have been through some shit and come out on the other side better for it. We talk about my childhood, about addiction and recovery, about mental health, meditation, isolation and community. We talk about the poet, too.
“If something triggers me when it comes to him,” I say, “I have about five friends in recovery I talk to about it first. That’s probably the only way I could be in any kind of relationship right now.”
We discuss his new girlfriend, too. Honestly, we’re both a little giggly. After we finish, we check our phones.
There’s a text from my mother, criticizing the happy birthday message I’d sent her.
I am about to share this with Askin, when he says,
“Fuck. She broke up with me.”
I’m speechless.
Why? How? What about the flowers? But everything seemed to be going so well!
Thankfully, I do not say any of this out loud.
I hover in the doorway, trying to be supportive but sensing he needs space.
He goes out to meet friends.
I sit down at the table and type out a response to my mom, but the conversation quickly deteriorates. I know, from past experience, that there’s no point in trying to fix things.
My mind starts to spin.
I’m due to meet the poet in half an hour. My heart pounding, every abandonment trigger I know screaming in my ears, Django and I head out the door.
She sent him flowers, and they broke up. Anything is possible.
The poet is not my mother.
You’re going to get dumped too.
No, I’m not.
You’re an idiot. You shouldn’t have done this. You should know better.
I try to call some of my recovery friends, but I forgot my earphones and the street sounds are so loud I can’t hear anything. I take a wrong turn and walk in the wrong direction for twenty minutes. By the time I get to the poet I’m pretty much hyperventilating and in desperate need of a hug.
He does not offer one.
My anxiety is now such that I’m practically vibrating.
He explains that he’s having a tough day, too. We sit down in a park and he tries to tell me what’s going on. It’s a work thing, apparently, and he’s explaining away, but my mind state plus English minus my lack of Turkish means all I can hear is, “I want to break up with you.”
“What” I hiss after 10 minutes, “are you. Trying. To say.”
He takes a deep breath.
“You know that scene in Ted Lasso? Where Rebecca asks Ted to not give advice, but just listen?” (Yes, all of these posts will eventually lead to Ted Lasso.)
“Yes.”
“I just needed to share what was going on. That’s all.”
My eyes pool with tears.
His widen.
“What’s wrong?”
I blurt out about my mother, and Askin’s breakup, and my paranoia of the last hour. He sits next to me and apologizes for not getting it, which makes me more teary. We stay for hours, having wine and crackers as the sun sets and people sit around us with dogs and sunflower seeds and portable speakers.
The next day, back in my living room, I share the story with Askin. Both of us laugh, him a little more sadly than me.
Then he packs up to fly back to Bodrum.
“I’m going to miss you,” I say, from the doorway again.
“Take care of yourself,” he says. “And that guy.” He points at Django. “And the poet.”
“I will.”
“And if you freak out, call me. After your five girlfriends. I’ll be your sixth.”
I follow him out into the hallway and wave as he heads down the stairs. Then I sit on the bed with Django in the silence of my new apartment, and have a little cry.
Of gratitude. Of awe. Of relief.
Such a confusing emotional day you had. So easy to put your negative thoughts into someone else head. Usually wrong. Good for you for asking.
Love the picture of you at 4.
I downloaded the Substack app as I have trouble commenting. We shall see if that helps.
Take care. Susan
That picture is perfection! I am in that pose almost every day:) I am also so happy that you have friends who understand you. And as you know...I am here, your Montreal friend.xo