Moving on has been a solid theme in my life for the past 6 months or so. As a result, pretty much everything I’ve done has been viewed through that lens.
As I wrote about in Moving and Moving on, Part 1 The Inauguration in January was one such events. And moving into a new apartment in February also became about not just the physical reality of moving, but also the emotional reality of moving and of moving on, specifically from Army Guy. It was emotionally exhausting as well as physically exhausting, and as a result, I managed to end up with the flu for moving week, which just made the already awesome experience of moving in the middle of winter that much better.
Major life changes, (ok, small life changes too) have always been fraught with emotional turmoil, and this was not only no different, but it was emotional turmoil to the 10th degree. I was moving out of a place where I had lived alone, and fairly contentedly, for several years, into a shared living space. As a result I was forced to downsize my possessions by a much larger percentage than I would have if I were just moving into another apartment. Downsizing is a particularly traumatic experience for me because I am, in every definition of the word, a pack rat. I’ve always known this about myself, and I have generally admitted, accepted and acknowledged it with a mix of acceptance and self conscious humor. But during this move I realized that being a pack rat is about more than just not throwing stuff away. Being a pack rat is a result, and to some degree function of, being someone who assigns emotional significance to basically every object that passes through my life.
As I picked up each object in my apartment and had to decide “keep or ditch”, I would remember why I had it. Generally, it was because I had deciding that it would make my life better in some way. That I would entertain more, sleep more, eat better, date more, be warmer, cooler, cozier, funnier, more secure, more adventurous, less busy, more busy, more organized, more relaxed, more social, less social, go out more, stay in more, or in some other way move a step closer to the life I thought I wanted, or should want.
And as I remembered the specific expectations I’d imbued each object with, I would then immediately recognize the ways in which it had facilitated exactly none of those aspirations, and then debate keeping it for hope that it might still. This is not to imply that I was, or am, unhappy with my life. In many ways it is exactly what I want, but not always what I pictured. Which isn’t a big deal on a day to day basis, but can create overwhelming cognitive dissonance and painful moments of self awareness when one is forced to confront that gap approximately 7, 416 times while under a deadline.
Eventually, as I realized my “keep” pile was far bigger than my “ditch” pile, I started to reevaluate my sorting method. I recognized that in many cases I had achieved some of the goals, but often without the use of the object, and without really even noticing. The “keep” piled thined a bit.
Next I evaluated if the aspirations painted on the object were still something I wanted. Pile thinned a bit more. Could I achieve them in another way? Pile thinned a bit more. But there was still WAY too much stuff left, and I hit a wall of emotional desperation.
Sitting in my living room, most furniture gone, surrounded by piles of “stuff” that for all intents and purposes represented my life, real and imagined, I found myself at a complete loss as to how to go further. I had parted, sometimes painfully, with SO much stuff…how could I possibly survive more loss? “Its inhumane,” I thought as the tears started to fall and heaviness settled in my stomach. “This is my stuff, and its good, useful stuff. Who says I won’t make fajitas with this fajita maker?!” I railed as I wiped the inch of dust off of it. “I could need this smoothie maker some day and I won’t have it, and then where will I be?” I ranted as I searched for the missing piece to the spout.
Eventually I forced myself to recognize that this was not really about the fajita maker, or the smoothy maker, or even, the coco-latte machine. It had even moved on from being about the failed aspirations of those items and their counterparts. It was, or had become, about a fear of what the future held, it was about the recognition that I was being forced to make repeatedly with each item: that things don’t have power to predict, or even facilitate my future, or to protect me from pitfalls and disappointments. I’d lived most of my life with the sense of security that comes from a belief that things have power. But, I now wondered, did I still need that belief system? Where had it really gotten me anyway?
At that moment my eyes fell on my couch, which in theory I’d always believed was too small, but a mental slide show of nights spent chatting cozily with friends or snuggled up with boyfriends, told me that in practicem had been fine. I remembered the moment I’d started to suspect I was falling in love with Army Guy had been on that couch, when it had felt wonderfully cozy. It was on that same couch that he had sat, miles away from me, and told me he couldn’t see me anymore.
I acknowledged for the first time that in moving out of the apartment, I was moving away from his ghosts as well, and felt both relief and sadness. Sadness because those ghosts of him were the last pieces I had, and in giving up those ghosts I was also giving up the fantasy I’d been quietly nurturing that one day I would again open my front door and find him standing on my porch. And I knew, finally, that it was time to MOVE ON. With renewed focus I thinned my keep pile to a manageable size.
On the day I dropped the key off at the old apartment, I took a moment and said goodbye to the apartment, to that life, and a final and offical goodbye to Army Guy. And for the first time in months had a sense of optimism and enthusiasm for the future, whatever it looked like without piles of random crap.
Too bad ”goodbye” isn’t always goodbye…
