Something is happening today that I’ve been dreading for months. To be fair, I haven’t been dreading it so much as simply not thinking about it, but it’s one of those things that ultimately can’t be avoided once the plan is set in motion. I really didn’t see how I was going to cope with it, yet here I am in the middle of it, not only not cowering in a corner but actually making time to write about it.
Can’t guess? That’s okay: we’re moving house.
Mrs. Satis got a new job, and we’re moving half an hour further south to accommodate (I’ll still be keeping my existing job (that is to say, the job that isn’t writing)). For someone who finds it difficult to get out of bed on most days, this is kind of a big deal. I knew it was coming, of course, ever since she accepted her new position, but nonetheless I did my utmost to put it out of my mind, because frankly moving house is way too big of a thing for me to contemplate.
It’s a question of being overwhelmed, ultimately. Social interactions are taxing for me at best, so having to deal with four strange men in my house all day long, making pleasantries and offering them coffee and lunch and all that, is enough to make me want to run screaming. (Hence why I’m hiding upstairs writing about it, rather than actually doing anything.) The packers/movers are nice enough, of course, but just the thought of having to go downstairs and say, “This goes, this stays, this we should never have had in the first place,” fills me with dread.
Then there’s the stress of knowing that every single item in the house has to go into a box. What if they pack something we need? What if they forget something? What if they try to pack my computer while I’m typing on it (yes, these things cross my mind)? All I really want to do is crawl into bed and hide under the covers.
What if they pack me?
Yet here I am, sitting up and awake, sweating (because it’s hot), drinking coffee (because I don’t care that it’s hot) and managing, internally at least, to not completely freak out. This is disastrous; it’s upheaval, it’s everything I know torn to pieces and shoved into boxes. My home is no more! I don’t deal well with change, in case you couldn’t tell. Yet somehow I’m coping.
Is this progress? I’m still taking most of my medications, though I need to visit the psychiatrist to get a refill on some of them. I’m still seeing my therapist once/twice a week. But everything leading up to this point suggested I ought to be a blubbering mess on the floor right now. Somehow I’m not.
It isn’t strength – I certainly don’t have any of that. I think perhaps it’s just that this is an unavoidable event; the movers were going to show up today whether I stayed in bed or not. They were going to pack around me, regardless of where I was in the house. It was preordained. And like anything unavoidable (going to work, shots, itches where you can’t scratch), you pretty much just have to deal with it when it happens.
I wonder if there’s a lesson here. For all the things I just can’t do, what if there was a way to just make them happen? What if I could convince myself that the dishes every night were unavoidable? That the laundry just had to get done? That my book simply must be written?
It’s a thought to consider, and consider it I will. For now I’d better go – they’re taking away my internet!