Squatters in the Penthouse

My friend’s husband used to have a saying: “I’m hearing a lot about ____.”

He’d fill in the blank with someone’s name, and it was his gentle, yet direct way of saying: that person is taking up too much space in our lives, dontcha think?

I call this concept Squatters in the Penthouse. Stories, people, memories that take up the most precious real estate in your brain and give you nothing in return. Squatters. Living in your Penthouse.

Here are the people that are currently living rent free in my penthouse: two ex-bosses, a former colleague, sometimes an in-law, a parent, and/or a sibling. Here are people who have lived there before: a former client, an old friend, a different sibling, a different boss, a cousin, an ex (many many exes), a certain US President, a neighbor, a published author (or two, or twelve). 

The funny thing is, they don’t even know they are living there. It’s not like they maliciously walk in and out of this gorgeous sprawling flat and laugh at me as they pass by (although sometimes my brain tells me they do this). I have put them there. I opened the door wide and said “Here is a place for you. I will keep it maintained, and you can live here as long as you like. I will take resentment and jealousy and envy as payment and in exchange you can have loud parties, invite friends, do massive renovations, and generally cause a raucous. Welcome.”

There are so many coping mechanisms to employ when faced with the icky feelings that these characters bring. And I’ve tried them all. 

I’ve pretended they never happened.

I’ve cut them out and distanced myself from anyone who reminded me of them.

I’ve avoided the topic and anything that even smells like it.

Another option when confronted with the ick, is to talk about it to an uninvolved party when it is fresh. Mull it over with a trusted friend. Hash it out with my partner. Spend countless hours in my therapist’s Zoom room uncovering and analyzing how I feel. 

As time went on, their presence in my penthouse would lessen, going from full-time tenants to part-time inhabitants. They’d stop by to throw a party when they were in town, but wouldn’t stick around long enough to take out the trash. 

I’d like to say they popped up of their own accord, but that would be a lie. I invited them back. I would seek them out and invite them right back to the prime real estate I had spent so much time complaining they occupied. 

If I am feeling really brave… angry… kind… confrontational… compassionate… naive… enlightened… narcissistic, I might talk to the actual parties involved. As Jeremy Goldberg said “Courage is knowing it might hurt, and doing it anyway. Stupidity is the same. And that's why life is hard.” 

So maybe I broached the subject because I was courageous, and maybe I broached it because I was stupid. Whatever the reason, afterwards I had an outcome that still landed me with Squatters in my Penthouse.

I listened to a meditation this morning by Sarah Blondin. She said (and I'm paraphrasing here): Sometimes the dark calls to us and we walk into it. We all do it. It's part of what makes us human. The work, the growth, is to recognize when we are doing it and turn our faces back towards the light. 

I had a falling out with a client once. Now that I’m solidly in perimenopause, I see that moment differently. Our last exchange ended with her hanging up abruptly. I was stunned. 

I thought obsessively about that exchange afterwards. It took over my thoughts—my time with my loved ones, my sleep, my alone time. I talked about it with my therapist, my husband, and my friends. It made me question myself as a coach, as a friend, as a business owner. 

Over time my relationship with the situation evolved. It went from occupying every inch of the penthouse to taking up less and less square footage. The combination of time, support, talk therapy (both professional and amateur), distance, self-examination, and self-belief eventually dissipated the feelings and the space that this takes up in my head. 

At some point, I realize that she no longer inhabits the penthouse at all. That at some point along the way, she moved out. Into another unit in the building. One that suits her better. One full of good memories and fun adventures, shared experience and deep conversations. The unit may not have the best view, but it’s hers. We have an agreement that she can stay, and I like having her there. I like the good memories we share.

Whenever I spend time in the penthouse, it feels better to take ownership of that space. It feels less daunting than I think it’s going to feel walking in there. It’s not as scary of a place as my mind makes it. It’s actually really nice.

So I guess the lesson here is to remember that. To remember that when I haven’t paid my penthouse a visit recently, that it’s time to do so. And to do it gently. Kindly. Both to myself and to those occupying it. 

“I’m hearing a lot about…” isn’t about gossip or complaints. It’s about awareness. It’s about noticing where your energy is leaking and reclaiming it.

So lately, when I catch myself venting about the same person twice, three times, or twelve, I stop and think: I’m hearing a lot about… It’s not self-judgment, but a moment of awareness and curiosity. What am I spending my precious energy on? What do I need to pay attention to?

The penthouse is mine. I get to decide who stays, who visits, and who no longer has a key.