I really thought I’d feel better once I could start doing something. Knowing I had to move out was awful, but once I actually got started on it I could keep busy and distract myself and it would maybe mitigate the grief somewhat. But then I found every excuse not to get started.
For awhile I was saying I need boxes so I can start packing, it’s making me crazy wandering around the house, picking things up, deciding whether to keep them or leave them behind, and then putting them back where they were because, whatever I had decided, I couldn’t do anything about it right then. Then I borrowed some boxes from a friend in Mannheim, and they sat in the front hallway forever.
Then I decided I need to know where I’m moving to, which was actually a legitimate thing: turns out, since I’m moving to a shared house, I don’t actually need any kitchen stuff at all, for instance. There are some things I’m fond of, though, which will have to go into storage: I’ve had that copper-bottomed pot since I moved out of my mom’s house, I’m not giving it up.
Once I’d signed the rental contract I needed mini-storage. I set that up on Wednesday, a very tearful day in which I needed to feel like I was doing something, and then yesterday was to be for packing and putting stuff in storage. I managed two boxes – everything I’m taking from the basement – yesterday, and the bathroom box today. And today I dragged Thing Two down to the storage locker to help me put up some shelves and hoick two of the boxes (my car is very small).
So yeah. Two shelves up, three boxes packed, and I do not feel better. I should. I’m keeping busy, I’m making lots of (probably very questionable) decisions, I’m staying active! But I think I have overestimated the value of moving forward and let that obscure the fact that this is still not a direction I want to be going in.
I’m just so tired of being sad.
Song du jour of the day: Together, by Ryan O’Shaughnessy.