Transitions and Tears

Today, as A and I were walking from Cosi back to the car to bring a box of clothes to the Goodwill, I mentioned how much I appreciated being able to share my life with him in real life, rather than just take my feelings, go home, cry, feel them, and journal– working it all out on my own. He asked if I still journaled.

“I do,” I told him, “In my small hard-copy journal. I write about feelings and thoughts but also have notes and quotes I like and stuff. I also have a journal on my computer [I didn’t say blog] which was mostly for sorting out my feelings and emotions in a more structured way.” At this point I looked at him. “I noticed that I’m writing much less there since you came into my life.”

“Is that a good thing?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, “I think it is. I think it means I’m able to release my feelings with you– that I can open up to you in real life, not just in the safety of a journal.”

And it’s true. I haven’t been on here in a while. Part of that is that I’ve been busy and spend most of my free time with A (now, living with him). But part, I think, is that on some level I have a person close enough to me to be able to release a lot of what I write about in real time. I don’t talk specifically about my ED (I’ll reserve that for the journals) or my depression/mood swings/etc, but I can tell him when I’m feeling self-conscious, when I have a bad day, when I’m not at my best, how I feel. What a privilege. To have a person like that.

Today was meant to be a big move– my bed to be delivered by car to a friend in NJ, then bring boxes of clothes and books to Goodwill, Buffalo Exchange, Strand, and linens to an animal shelter. A rented a car and we got up at 5:45 to begin.

The day was pretty miserable. The bed didn’t fit in the car, so we brought down two pieces for nothing and I STILL have a bed in my old apartment that I don’t need. We had an extra hour or two to kill because we didn’t go to NJ. There were lines at the Strand, Buffalo Exchange AND Animal Haven, and the Goodwill didn’t open on time. A got a ticket on his way home because he had his phone in his hand for a SECOND to talk to me. $130 fine. No joke. Don’t touch your phone in NYC, drivers.

I cried probably four times over the course of the day. I was already anxious going into the day, and all of these things that went SO wrong just put me over the edge. It was the first time that this move has really gotten under my skin. I don’t think I was blogging actively during the time of my last move 2 years ago, but it was traumatic. The move into a temporary sublet came during my senior year, when I was trying to balance school, a show, work, a stupid relationship, and the worst bouts of depression and ED behavior I had faced for a while. After a month, the sublettor kicked me out, saying I was “dirty” (perhaps I was a little messy (ED does that) but, REALLY). She stole my second month’s rent of $800. I had a week to find a new apartment. It was horrific.

So I think some of that fear is creeping into this move… the desire to not trust anyone with any part of it. The desire for it to all be over and to erase what was before and just have my new life immediately.
In fact, even my first move in NYC was traumatic– I moved just before I studied abroad in Russia, also at the height of my ED. My mom helped me move, but I had to spend Christmas in NY and CT with my family instead of going home so I could fly to Moscow on the 26th. My first night in my apartment was when I returned from Moscow to a letter my mother had sent to my therapist behind my back (something I have written about). I have never been so angry at my parents and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive them. I didn’t speak to them for weeks. The year I lived in that apartment, I was actively struggling with the beginnings of ED recovery and enormous depression. My roommate, although I told her, was actively unsympathetic. It was terrible.

So moving is traumatic. For everyone, but really for me. And although I couldn’t be more excited for this transition, I know that transitions are hard for me. And needing help and needing support and not being able to hide… that’s hard.

There is no one better than A.

But it’s a journey. We’re on a ride. And this is just the first drop.

Thanks, y’all, for sticking around with me, too. I know I’ve been MIA. I still read, and I’m still here. And happy. Just trying to get through the day. Love to all corners of the earth.

“Hopes were wallflowers. Hopes hugged the perimeter of a dance floor in your brain, tugging at their party lace, all perfume and hems and doomed expectation. They fanned their dance cards, these guests that pressed against the walls of your heart.”
Karen Russell, Swamplandia!

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