Transitory Times

It’s been a minute since I posted something now, hasn’t it? Sorry about that! But I think I have a good excuse.

You see, I spent almost two weeks moving out of my old house and have spent the week since crashing with my boyfriend and his roommates. To top it off, my (old) computer was on the verge of crashing for much of that time so I had to use it as sparsely as possible. So please forgive me.

However, now that I have settled into my new class, gotten a new computer, and am waiting patiently for Wednesday when I will be taking off on my five week adventure to New York City I have some time to breathe and update whoever is interested on my opinions on life. And due to my recent transition from one living space to another, I would like to use this post to touch on moving specifically.

Originally, I considered addressing this subject in a comedic sense, possibly with a list of common headaches or a particularly laughable mishap I faced. However, as I recalled the events of the week and a half of organizing my things into “need” and “don’t need” piles, packing what I could into my car and storing the rest in a unit, and then spending two whole days cleaning my wreck of a house from top to bottom I found that there was little laughter buried within the experience.

I actually began drafting this post last week, but couldn’t bring myself to finish it. The thick residue of loss and depression still clung to my tongue and I found the words sticky in my throat.

It took some personal recovery time and the settling in to a new (but temporary) home to be able to tackle this subject publicly.

I’ve always been a bit of a homebody.

Actually, scratch that. I’ve always been a huge homebody.

I am a stationary being. My sense of self relies heavily on my space, expressed and remembered by the decorations I hang on my walls and my body. So as I packed my belongings into boxes and stored the better portion of my beloved wardrobe in a locked storage unit, I couldn’t help but feel that I was stowing bits and pieces of myself away.

I was losing little bits of myself with each empty wall and didn’t know how to handle the feelings I was facing. My feelings of loneliness increased as I proceeded with the process mostly by myself. Livvy had already left for France and my mother could not come down to help me until the last couple of days. I had my boyfriend and some of my other guy friends, but I needed girl time. It was simply not an ideal situation.

I don’t think all moves are this hard. I’ve been through a couple, though not many, in the past and they were always laced with excitement, making the stress somewhat worth it. This move, on the other hand, was filled with nothing but dread.

I could sense a transition in not only my living space, but my way of living. I was becoming migratory and my “self” was going to have to rely on me, not my surroundings. It was panic inducing, to say the least. And the suppression of that panic lead to depression. But I’ve made it through.

I’m in a better place now.

It’s only been a week, but I’ve managed to become more comfortable with knowing who I am without my memorabilia. Or at least with the idea of it.

It’s a process, but I’m okay with it. I’ve found my boyfriends house to be a safe place. I feel welcome here and it is helping me feel more comfortable with who I am. Just in the past week I can feel my confidence growing.

I guess the moral of this story would be; things are always changing- you are always changing- and that’s okay.

One foot in front of the other, my friend.

As of now, I wouldn’t say that I’m ready to travel to New York and be away from my friends for so long, but I’m not dreading it either. Excitement is slowly infiltrating my apprehension and I can feel my determination to make the most of it growing.

The next time I post, I will be on the other side of the country!

On a final note, if any of you have instagrams, you should follow me! emmalumarshall! I’ll follow you back! I’d love to get a glimpse into the lives of other writers!

 

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