I found myself, surrounded by junk and boxes, crying on my bedroom floor.
My bedroom floor.
Packing has become very sad for me all of a sudden. I am excited to start something new but scared at the same time; worried maybe it won’t work out… worried I will miss it here. Scared I’m giving up my independence, my dreams… I feel a very slight tinge of failure in going back to Orillia, mostly a fear that other people will think I couldn’t cut it. Oh, I cut it, I cut it long enough.
I’ve been in this city for 6 years. At 26, going on 27, that is a long time.
I found boxes of old relics, clothes, Christmas Cards signed “Love, Aunt so and so…” So many memories here. I went through so many changes here. I grew here.
I have a feeling I’m going to have some rough nights coming up…
I am excited to try something new. I am excited to be in a nice new apartment, arrange my furniture, paint a room. I am excited for weekly grocery shops with my mom, and babysitting the kids. I am excited to cook Dan dinner, and have his quiet presence on the couch, I am excited to rest my head on his shoulder as I fall asleep each night. But I feel a small amount of mourning in my leaving, the kind of mourning you experience when a loved one passes away after a long, drawn out illness. Everyone is glad to see an end of the struggle, but it’s sad at the same time.
I think I’ve done enough for tonight… I will feel better when I am settled.
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