I am acquainted with exactly zero people in this world who enjoy moving. That is because moving is awful, especially when it is hot and sticky outside. Once you actually get all your boxes unpacked, you are also left with mountains of cardboard. You have to relearn where your utensils are, which side of the closet is yours, and there is the never-ending question of “is this in the right spot?” You will have to learn where the closest supermarket is, and where your new favorite gas station is located. You will need to find new routes to work, school or even just your favorite parks. All of which can be an exciting adventure for a daring person. When you are someone who is most stable with routine though, suddenly moving becomes unbearable.
I am that person who thrives on knowing what to expect. I am at my worst when my home life has been disrupted. On my best days, if I can pretend I have some sort of control then my genuinely uneasy nature seems to shake with a little less noise. On my worst days, when there is no chance I can pretend I have any control then I quickly spiral downward. Last week I had an anxiety attack over a refrigerator. Then there was the lack of trash pick-up or any reliable internet service. There was a mailbox situation and a new puppy situation. Our dogs got into a fight, and one left the squabble with stiches. Then as if my body created a physical manifestation of all of my emotional distress- I got sick.
Life piled up quickly. I thought I wanted a break from blogging to keep putting out the metaphorical fires that were surrounding my every day. I thought I needed to be away to plot my new schedule, my new life. But, I was actually consumed. I got lost in the haze of my routine shifting. I do not deal with change easily. I am so much more stable than I previously was that it is easy to lose sight of this fact. I want to be the person who is perfectly fine with change. And in some places I can be. The overwhelming majority of the time though, this is simply an elaborate lie I tell myself I can accomplish.
I wrote so many blogs. With each potential post, I got further and further away from what I actually wanted to write about. I delved into theories of growing up, to all the reasons I should not be blogging right now. It was a vicious cycle I created for myself instead of admitting I was drowning. I pride my blog on being an honest representation of where I am at in life, but how do I admit that to my readers when I cannot even admit it to myself? This blog post is my first step towards confessing that truth with myself. I am not handling the change in the effortless, whimsical way that my imagination wants me to believe. Rivers of choked sobs have escaped, while I struggled to breathe and angry, red blotches formed against my face. I have attempted to pick fights with my husband, if he would only enable my righteousness, because anger feels stronger than fear. The pressure to start a new life has been enormous.
I know this move was the right choice to make. We bought our first house. A house I adore, in a town I love. It is removed from the city, and my kid has land to roam. We have room to grow. It is difficult to admit, but it took me getting so sick that even walking to the bathroom felt like an immense expenditure of energy for me to find my peace.
I did not put out a blog sooner because nothing felt authentic enough. Nothing felt raw enough. I was not willing to peel back my layers and examine why I felt so out of control. It felt so superficial to simply say “I do not deal with change well.” But feelings do not always make sense. For me, this is especially true. Change is hard because it feels vulnerable, it feels unsafe. I wish I could accurately portray how simple boxes piling up made me feel completely out of control. Every fiber of my being hummed with anxiety. My entire body felt restless as the mountains of cardboard grew higher and higher. My compulsions to make everything perfect, to make it feel like the home-y organized chaos I love ardently, drove me to madness.
It gets easier when you admit what is wrong. My new routine begins to emerge more clearly when the fog of obsession lifts itself. I am not forgetting to take my medication until half the day is gone. I know where most of the dishes are. I have survived a toddler spread zombie virus. I am settling in. The further I am from feeling the change, the easier it is to breathe. But fuck, moving sucks.