There is something daunting about packing up your life into boxes, bags and bins and moving. Weeding out everything you are and everything you own into "keep" and "throw away" piles. Reminders of things you have forgotten, either purposely or not, surfacing after years of neglect.
Procrastination seems to be my specialty as of late when it comes to the thought of it all. Compounded by back injury, I am haunted by what may lurk in the back of those closets. Those proverbial skeletons waiting to pop out and conjure up things that may have been better left where they are.
The last time I moved was out of necessity, it was an escape. From a place that had been my first home. Well, rented home, but it was mine nonetheless. 6 years of memories, mostly good. Until it all got ripped away by someone who decided that keeping a sturdy roof over my sons head was only second best to snorting heroin up their nose. That violent mood swings and mental abuse became a way of life I wasn't cut out for and I needed to get away, for the sake of my sanity and more importantly the safety of my then 1 year old son.
Now close to 4 years later, circumstances may be different, but there is still a necessity. And all those things boxed up and all those emotions bottled are surfacing. I had my father's help before. I had his support, his guidance. OK, so I had him yelling at me to do things "his" way and a rented Brazilian, but still I had him.
All of it rests upon the anniversary of his death. The anniversary if Dylan's father once again choosing drugs over his son and causing chaos in our lives, although this time, THIS time in front of my child. And Dylan's 5th birthday.
I know I should look at moving as a new beginning, as all you perpetual optimists keep trying to tell me. But as I stare at the unending task of packing it all up into labeled boxes and bins, as I try to reassemble my life into a new one, compartmentalized into some sort of twisted organization, I can't get past it all.
Everything comes flooding back to me as if it were happening all at once and I am overwhelmed by it all at once. My father's death, Dylan's father, my health, single parenthood, my son, money, feeling alone, taking care of my mother; all things that seem so insignificant to anyone else, that seem so harmless and yet right now I feel so fragile. Like as if one more tiny crack is all it would take for me to shatter into a million tiny pieces.
And so nothing is done. I stare at it all, knowing it needs to be done, and I freeze. I cower before the task, afraid. Like a child afraid of what lurks under the bed in the dark, I fear the ghosts of the past, what I will uncover while I slowly remove the layers of dust from the shelves. Will these stigmas follow me? Will I only re-pack them and carry them with me to where I am escaping to next?
Or is this a chance to leave it all finally behind me?
Procrastination seems to be my specialty as of late when it comes to the thought of it all. Compounded by back injury, I am haunted by what may lurk in the back of those closets. Those proverbial skeletons waiting to pop out and conjure up things that may have been better left where they are.
The last time I moved was out of necessity, it was an escape. From a place that had been my first home. Well, rented home, but it was mine nonetheless. 6 years of memories, mostly good. Until it all got ripped away by someone who decided that keeping a sturdy roof over my sons head was only second best to snorting heroin up their nose. That violent mood swings and mental abuse became a way of life I wasn't cut out for and I needed to get away, for the sake of my sanity and more importantly the safety of my then 1 year old son.
Now close to 4 years later, circumstances may be different, but there is still a necessity. And all those things boxed up and all those emotions bottled are surfacing. I had my father's help before. I had his support, his guidance. OK, so I had him yelling at me to do things "his" way and a rented Brazilian, but still I had him.
All of it rests upon the anniversary of his death. The anniversary if Dylan's father once again choosing drugs over his son and causing chaos in our lives, although this time, THIS time in front of my child. And Dylan's 5th birthday.
I know I should look at moving as a new beginning, as all you perpetual optimists keep trying to tell me. But as I stare at the unending task of packing it all up into labeled boxes and bins, as I try to reassemble my life into a new one, compartmentalized into some sort of twisted organization, I can't get past it all.
Everything comes flooding back to me as if it were happening all at once and I am overwhelmed by it all at once. My father's death, Dylan's father, my health, single parenthood, my son, money, feeling alone, taking care of my mother; all things that seem so insignificant to anyone else, that seem so harmless and yet right now I feel so fragile. Like as if one more tiny crack is all it would take for me to shatter into a million tiny pieces.
And so nothing is done. I stare at it all, knowing it needs to be done, and I freeze. I cower before the task, afraid. Like a child afraid of what lurks under the bed in the dark, I fear the ghosts of the past, what I will uncover while I slowly remove the layers of dust from the shelves. Will these stigmas follow me? Will I only re-pack them and carry them with me to where I am escaping to next?
Or is this a chance to leave it all finally behind me?
No comments:
Post a Comment