Living in limbo is akin to floating in the air on the string of a balloon. You are fully aware that at any moment the balloon could burst–WILL burst– and down, down, down you would go.
If you look back at my blog (and if I hadn’t deleted the years of backlogged posts dating pre-YWAM era), you will see a very clear trend: moving, and the frenzy of adaptation. I repeat the numbers quite a lot, because I think it gives me a sense of reassurance. It justifies the way I feel about life, says Yes, yes, ah yes this makes sense now, all of it.
So here are some more numbers, to lead into the current head space. I’m in my 34th house in 29 years. It will soon reach #35, and it’s a constant buzzing stress beneath the surface. I haven’t lived in one actual house longer than a year since college…and only because I had to work on campus during summer breaks. It actually hasn’t been since high school, that I’ve felt the comfort of calling a place “home” and feeling my bones settle into the groove of chairs.
I’m renting a room right now, because in California when you’re unmarried, that’s what you do. My time here is limited, because my landlord is very old, and the situation is precariously balanced on her moods. I have a dog now, so my search now has to include the words “yard”, and “pet-friendly”, and also “affordable”…paradoxical indeed.
With this balancing act of making my room a home but not too homey because I need to be ready to pack up at any time, there’s an anxiety that reaches beyond home ware. Why would I make friends when I don’t know where I will be moving to next? Why would I invest my soul again into a place when my heart will have to detach soon, and be ready for the next place? Why find a church home? Or a favourite spot, or a book club, or budget in that nice armchair because I might have to give it away when I move.
These are dark thoughts, slightly defeatist. I cringe my way through the work week because I work late hours, in an isolating job where I interact with no one. I come home to take care of the dog because I’ve been gone all day, and then I collapse into sleep. Sometimes my boyfriend comes by after an even longer work day, and we collapse into sleep together. I’m curling into myself again, protecting against the move, the severed ties, the rip away, the hurling into the unknown yet again. I love California, but I do not love what I have become.
In an attempt to launch myself into a vulnerable, open creature that embraces all friendships and intimacies and fun, EVEN IF everything is temporary, I wrote a list of things I must do.
HOW TO BE SOCIAL WHEN YOU FEEL LIKE SHIT
- SIGN YOURSELF UP FOR THOSE DINNER PARTIES. You know, the cool ones you wish you could host?
- JOIN THAT BOOK CLUB. Because you really need to geek out over the new Celeste Ng book, right?
- THEATRE. watching, performing, stage crew…all of it. It feeds your soul.
- OPEN MIC. girl, read your poetry, appreciate others.
- GROUP HIKES. Absolutely nothing better.
- HOMEGROUP. oops, should this be #1? over it, but necessary.
- DOG PARKS. Like, ” Must Love Dogs” , only can I make some cool platonic friends?
- NANNY GROUPS. I kind of burned some bridges with Bay Area nanny services, but like…there are still some cool nannies here right?
Kay, so if all goes according to this list, I’ll be happily hiking in muddy boots with my bffs after brunch by summer, right?
moving sucks, I hate it, I’m done.