For the past few days I’ve felt a burning desire to spit fire and blame at my former fiance. I couldn’t explain it, and I was reeling against myself for wanting so badly to push all the blame on him. I shared these feelings with a close friend of mine, and while she could empathize, she assured me these urges were natural and that if I felt I should tell him something, then I should.
Summer 2013. My family plans to move. I pack my things, say farewell to home, and move to school. But then plans change–don’t they always?–and we don’t move after all. Now it’s summer 2014 and I’m home again: My things in boxes, trying to fit two rooms into one.
Taking Graham Hill’s advice that fewer things leads to greater happiness (a lesson I’ve learned again and again in Belize and Alaska and Mexico), I told myself I’d get rid of enough stuff to make everything fit–and to have room left over to live.
But all this stuff? It seems infinite. And that’s the beginning.
It’s finally happened. Yesterday while I was at work my boss of over three years (and teacher a long time before that) came up to me and asked, “Am I correct to assume you won’t be returning next year?”
I looked at him and said, “My hope is to be at State, so… yes.”
It was only after he had walked away and I was walking back to my kids that I clutched at my chest and shook my head, whispering to myself, I can’t believe it’s finally true. It’s all suddenly real now. It’s hard to believe I’ve reached the end at last.