Last week I spoke about feeling out of place in my own home while we wait in limbo for our new house to be built–a house I won’t even live for another year, and then possibly only intermittently after that. It’s disappointing and discouraging, and in general, I’m still trying not to think of it all too much.
I have more important things to tend to–like recategorizing every post I’ve written for the past three and a half years, a task I’m plowing through against everything else. It’s been enlightening to see so much of my personal history, and it’s ironic how many trends I’ve noticed in living life holding down the rewind button.
My life tends to follow a predictable pattern: School starts in August and my writing life slows down, and by March, everything is in utter chaos. I’m achy and depressed, mentally torn in two, and when the summer comes in May, I’m promised reprieve but instead I’m met with laxity as pent-up exhaustion overcomes me.
I’d like to say this year has proved the exception, but it’s only proved the rule. My spring semester shredded me, and this summer–for all I’m getting done–is agonizing, excruciating even, as I force myself through all this exhaustion and laziness. But it is happening. It’s trying, but it’s happening.
Yesterday, feeling unable to sit at my computer all day, I joined my siblings to go furniture window-shopping at a prominent store a fair drive away. As I went through, I was rearranging the plans I’ve got for my new room, deciding if I need new pieces and where I want them. After watching hours of HGTV, I feel like my room deserves a splurge–and maybe I’ll get one to update my mushroom chair into an enjoyable reading nook.
That I won’t even see until next year.
I suppose I’m still bitter about moving, but I’m going to be so busy at school, doing so many amazing things, that I hope it’ll make up for missing things at home. I’ll gain closure in other ways–I’ll gain closure through creation, not conclusion, piecing together my room bit by bit until I’ve created such a new beginning, it’ll take the place of a true ending. I don’t know if it’ll work, but it’ll be a start.
The point I wanted to make when I sat down to write this was that I’m finally starting to feel better. After writing my other post, after expressing what I was feeling and honestly opening up to myself, I wanted to say it hasn’t bothered me so much this week. And that’s true, it hasn’t, but writing this, I’ve realized I don’t feel that much better after all. If anything, I’ve just found different things to feel bad about.
All the painting is happening before we move–but I’ll be at school before we move, so I won’t see the paint color I choose to put on the wall. Maybe it’ll be all I have ever wanted. Maybe it won’t be. And once it’s there, it’s there–I get no second chances.
When I come back for fall break–if I choose to go back for fall break–I won’t know where anything is in the kitchen. Not the cups, not the plates, not the silverware. All my things will be in boxes. All the clothes I leave at home will still be in boxes. And I don’t even know if I’ll have a bed to sleep on.
It’s a dismal situation. And the more I think about it, the more I don’t want to think about it. I’m at a loss for how to proceed–I’m at loss for how to change what’s out of my control to change.
So instead I push on with what I can–relaunching my blog, preparing my Belize book, and serving the conference committee. It’s tiring, exhausting, painful even, but it’s all I’ve got left.