Moving

I’m thirteen days away from moving back out of the states for the first time in years. The simmering undercurrent of anxiety that’s been building for weeks is slowly coming to a boil. I’m going too fast and too soon, I know that I don’t have enough money to do what I’m doing but I have to live with the assumption that everything will eventually work itself out.

It’s odd when you’re leaving for what feels like a semi permanent event that simultaneously feels like something I can revoke at any moment how other people treat the matter. My parents didn’t try and talk me out of it, rather I said “I’m doing this” and they said “sounds good” and I can’t quite decide if I like that or not. I don’t know how much I like the idea of forcing myself to pare down everything I own into essentials, like I’m packing for a long trip as opposed to uprooting my life. Nothing quite seems real beyond the ache in my bones.

Every day I sit down at my little laptop and apply for more jobs, hoping that someone will reach out to me and say “Surprise! You’re a Success!” and I can stop worrying about the future for just a little while. Thinking at all about a future leaves me uncomfortably and firmly living in the moment. I can feel every inch of my skin touching the granite counter and rubbing against the outline of my shirt, I can hear the fridge humming in the background in harmony with some lightbulb that -

Oh that’s the coffee pot done making coffee humming. Just a moment please.

Do I need to pack coffee grounds to take with me? Will that make my underwear smell like finely ground and well roasted beans? Is that a slice of luxury I can give myself over to? Or would I arrive and remember that my friend doesn’t own a coffee pot over the pond? I need to buy a french press again.

I want the luxury of being able to sit with myself and know that I’m doing the right thing. I only ever feel that way when I’m working and I’m going so fast there’s no room to actually think. Everything that’s important can stay locked in my brain for no one else to see, except maybe you, gentle reader. Maybe you’re the exception.

I keep posting on other platforms looking for a big break but where and how? I don’t niche down and I don’t post often enough for that to be ok. Everything I look at is an opportunity I cannot touch. Every twinge in my back every stroke of my brush every breath of fresh coffee is a reminder that I’m alive and I’m not doing enough.

There’s a project sitting upstairs that I need to finish before I leave. That thought sits on repeat for hours on end. I think I might be able to finish one such project before the tides of reality sweep me away. Thank good ness for well stuffed suitcases. Thank goodness for patches on my jeans that will let me live out this fantasy a little bit longer.

The holes in my work pants stretch further so I take the desiccated remains of another pair of jeans and force a little more life out of the fabric. Every stitch is a promise of future rest. Every dart of my needle reminds me I’m not as good at sewing as I would delude myself to think. The holes stretch out at the apex of my thighs and infuriate me, what part of me is so wrong that this is where things fall apart? Am I too fat to wear things for long periods of time? Or is my sweat too acidic to be allowed to wear things at all, eating away at the fabric without my consent, simply gnawing piece by piece until I want to fall apart myself.

My coffee is warm and comforting. Everything gourmet about it is a consequence of someone else’s expertise. The bubbles that always surprise me with their longevity cluster at the edges, trying to leave a perfect cluster of warm caramel color at the center for me to appreciate in its simplicity. So I do.

I got this mug years ago during a Halloween sale at a craft store. “Witch’s Brew” it says in a screen-printed negative space font, superimposed over a bubbling cauldron flanked by bats. It’s funny, it’s simple, it’s cute and most importantly the mug is just the right size for me. I’ll be leaving it here, for guests to use like they always do. Everyone appreciates its size and shape, the way it feels just right to hold in the hand. I know, I didn’t just pick it because I liked the silly picture. I liked it for the reflection of myself. And I’m leaving it behind.

I’m leaving behind my bed, which is just a little bit broken so that it cradles my body like an egg in a paper bag being thrown from a high school rooftop. I’m leaving behind my large mirror that I put an affirmation sticker onto years ago, something I’ve seen so many times I don’t even notice it any more I just live it. I’m leaving behind books upon books upon books, there are so many books that I haven’t read that are sitting in my room eagerly collecting dust and holding their secrets. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to find out what those secrets are.

I’m leaving behind friends, people who don’t care that I’m leaving and have made no attempt to be close to me but for whom I will feel my heart crack every day. I’m leaving behind friends who wanted to be closer to me but for whom I couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling of not being seen for myself or whose desire to be more than friends remains clung to my skin whenever their eyes are on me. I’m leaving behind friends who are new and fresh and who are openly mourning my loss because they haven’t had the chance to stop being my friend and start being a missed opportunity yet.

I don’t dread the future but I lie in fear of it finding me.