So last night my Britches and Hose took me to IHOP and bowling as a going-away party for me. And I had fun — good conversations with good people, and I made three strikes — but at the end of the night I felt sad. I realized that I was supposed to feel sad. It was a going-away party because I was leaving these wonderful people. I am going to miss all these good friends.
It doesn’t feel real to me. My room is full of boxes. I’ve put all of my books into all of these boxes. I’ve put about half of my wall hangings into these boxes. But not all of them. I spent this morning staring at the boxes, until I went upstairs and played on my phone. I spent yesterday morning making up a silly story about zombies trying to eat someone. Normally I would chalk this sort of behavior up to depression, but this doesn’t feel like depression.
I’ve been planning this move for months and months, and now that it’s almost here, I’m scared of it. I’m sad to go. Afraid of change. I’m avoiding the work of packing. If I don’t pack, then I won’t move, and nothing will change. Even though I want the change, I’m scared of the change. Part of it is fear of it turning out the last time I moved out of state — came back nine months later at my lowest point in my depression — or maybe like the last time I moved in with a boyfriend — less said about that the better — and even though I know it won’t be like that, I’m still afraid. I’m not even sure what I’m afraid of. Just the abstract concept of change?
Packing is hard. Moving is hard. Next week, nothing is going to be the same.