I am so stressed out about moving.
Moving is overwhelming. I remember when I moved away from Bloomington, thinking I didn’t have much stuff and could put off packing, it wouldn’t take long. I actually had a ton of stuff and packing took forever. This time I am determined not to stay up until all hours the night before my move, so I’ve already started packing. I really don’t have that much stuff now. I have more fabric than anything else. I have gotten rid of so many clothes that my closet is manageable. I still have a lot of shoes but so, so many fewer than 3 years ago in Indiana. 2.5 shelves of books, a few boxes of kitchen items, 2 boxes of art supplies. I have lots of art to transport and one big box just of blankets (I really love blankets). It’s not that bad. It’s still overwhelming though, or is it just whelming? Is it just exactly the amount of whelm that it should be? What does that even mean?
I’m stressed about packing because it’s a lot of work, it’s chaotic, and it reveals all the literal dust bunnies that have accumulated in my life. Although, it’s a good opportunity to throw shit away (or donate it. I tried to sell some stuff but that requires a lot more energy than I can muster.). Because there is a lot of work required to pack and because I have things all over this small house, I feel guilty when I’m not packing. Because I am so stressed out, I’m taking a lot of breaks to rest and to feel guilty about not packing.
It’s not just the physical acts of moving that are stressing me out. There are crazy questions storming my head all the time. What if I actually hate my new place? I was desperate to find a place when I went to see it, and it was in really bad shape. The woman who was living there had truly disgusting house-keeping habits and had a stripper pole in the living room (to be fair, she was a topless dancer and kudos to her for the professional development) and a serious Halloween theme going on. I’m pretty sure I saw the beauty of the house behind the piles of clothing and weird, giant teddy bear in the bedroom, but what if I was blinded by desperation?! I can’t remember the exact floor plan so all my preliminary mental decorating could be setting me up for a huge disappointment.
Also, what if I become a total hermit? I really enjoyed living alone for the few months I did it in Bloomington, and I’ve been dying to live alone again for years. My tendency towards staying home and reading or sewing or watching Netflix every evening, when there is absolutely no one there to talk to, could set me up for an early spinsterhood (I think, crazily). What if I fall into a terrible pattern of going to work, going home, turning the TV on, and slowly dying—alone?!
What if I hate living in Durham?!
What if the light is bad and all my houseplants die?!
What if I suddenly suck at decorating and my house is ugly?!
What if anything at all comes up and I can’t afford my new, higher rent?!
What if it’s haunted by a malicious spirit who resents my living in their corporeal home?!
WHAT?! WHAT IF?!! WHAAAAAAAA?!!!
I think I’m stressing out my cat.
Change is hard. More than one change at a time is really hard. There are at least 3 big changes I can think of in my life right now. A bunch of planets are in retrograde. I’m on my damn period.
It’s all going to be okay.
Unless there’s a ghost.