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- I officially have a new job! Everything is good to go and the offer letter is signed and I’m all set to start in three weeks-ish.
- I got a call this morning that we got the house that we put the application in for, so we should be getting the lease emailed to us today. We’ll move in two weeks, on 10/8.
This has all happened so fast and it’s very difficult to wrap my head around. During this time that I’m moving forward I keep thinking about my past. And remembering.
I’m remembering that a year ago I was in the process of selling my home, the home I was in for five years, the home that I built my life in with EJ. I’m trying to take myself back to that time, to that me that existed a year ago. I’m trying to remember the feelings of happiness and excitement; of pain and loss. The house was our last big thing together, and it was almost 100% of the reason we ever had to talk. And I hated that we had to talk, had to fight, had to have any kind of contact with each other. And the selling of the house would stop this. It would end the contact and allow me to be AWAY from her so I could continue to heal, and heal properly. I remember being happy about that. In the same breath, I remember being sad about that too – sad to the depths of my soul.
I went back and read my journal/blog entries from that time and I was struck by some things I wrote. My heart aches for my 27-year old self, my self a year ago. I wrote, “This is the beginning of the end of my closure. I hope.” Oh Jen. It’s a start, I want to go back and tell her. It’s a start for sure, but these things take time and although time helps, it’s not a guarantee of closure. There is no quick fix.
Or how about this?: “I’m going to miss my home. I hope whatever the future holds makes me look back at this and understand why it all had to happen. But for now, my heart just hurts.” Wouldn’t it have been wonderful to know back then that the future was closer than I imagined?
And then I’m remembering that on Saturday, on September 25, 2010, EJ and I were supposed to get married. Get married! We had places booked and catering booked and a photographer and videographer all set. It is very strange to know that one of life’s big moments was going to happen – that we were looking forward to that day throughout all of our time together. And now that is not my life. Not our life. EJ is getting married herself two weekends from now – just two weeks after she was supposed to get married to me, she’s marrying another woman. Weird and strange. And I’m moving in with my girlfriend in another state. And this Saturday night I’m going to my 10 year high school reunion instead of getting married. That is our life now. Separate. Not connected.
And so I think about the past a little bit before I move on. I think about it because it’s the molecules that helped make my life today. I think about it because it’s necessary for my healing and my recovery and for my evolution.
“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us” ~ Joseph Campbell
What are little girls made of, made of?
What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice and everything nice.
That’s what little girls are made of.
I’m made of these things that pulse through my blood and through my veins: the sand and the asphalt; the boardwalk pizza and the cheesesteaks; the polluted, smoky atmosphere and the sea-salty air; catholic school uniforms and flip-flops and bathing suits; catching softballs and catching crabs; subway rides and boat rides; the huckster and the ice cream man; the cars clogging the city streets and the cruiser bikes gliding along the shoreline; the family I was born into and the family that I’ve chosen.
Plop me in the middle of any city, anywhere in the world, and I’ll figure out how to navigate it, with it’s millions of people and subway systems and tourist traps. Put me 30 miles from the ocean and I’ll smell my way to the sea, my soul leading the way. Throw me in a pool or the bay or the ocean and I’ll transform into the fish that I am, my body cutting through the water as if I have gills. Drive me into rush hour traffic with five accidents and a car fire and I’ll occupy myself or finish something I’ve been working on, because of course, I know how to be prepared. Lay me in a bed near traffic rushing by and horns beeping, in the middle of bright street lights and the generator from the bar down the street humming, and I’ll go to sleep.
Plop me in the middle of a forest, and I won’t be able to find my way out or be able to identify plants and trees, north or south. Give me a fishing rod and I may catch a fish, but I won’t know how to take it off so it can go quickly and safely back in the water. Flip my kayak over in a brackish lake and I’ll get skeeved out from the unknowings lurking below. Drive me through the country and I might get a little bored and crave the interstate, a place of familiar comfort. Lay me down in a tent in the darkness and the quiet night will keep me awake. Drive me through the mountains and the curvy roads and I’ll feel a little out of place, a visitor amongst the tall oaks stretching into the sky. Give me a gun and I won’t know how to use it, the concept of killing anything foreign to me, the idea of getting my meat anywhere except the grocery store a little ludicrous.
So much of who you are is, perhaps, by chance. The geographical location(s) of where you happen to be birthed, raised, and spent your childhood – this forms what you know as normal and typical – and it’s not until you are old enough for cognitive thought and have had experiences elsewhere that you begin to grasp the enormity of what is out there, outside of the walls that have contained you in your youth.
Roots are a funny thing. I love mine. I wouldn’t trade where I’m from for anything in the world. Like most people, I’m egocentric enough to believe this was the best way to grow up. Intellectually, though, I understand it’s all wonderful enough.
I’m sad to leave this place that helped build me, yet I’m excited to go to a new place that will add to the continuing growth of who I am.
I’m nervous and excited and a bit sad to join the ranks of people who move away from their home. The evolution of myself – it continues to surprise me.
This is the second time I’m making house with a butch partner. When we sat down to discuss what we both wanted out of a place, B had a few specific requirements:
- A garage. If a garage isn’t possible, a shed. If a shed isn’t possible, then at least a basement. She wants this for all of her landscape equipment, tools, storage for fun toys, and other things I probably don’t the names of. I agree we need one of these, but only because we need a place to put two kayaks and two bikes and maybe the Christmas decorations. B says no decorations allowed, and that I should probably not try to claim any part of this space at all. I told her I might need at least the corner(!!), but I don’t think I’m going to be successful in gaining territory of this part of the house.
- Closet space for clothes. We both have a lot of them.
- A decent sized, functional kitchen. She is the chef and has certain desires when it comes to her cooking space.
Interesting enough, my ex (EJ) also had the same requirements, although a bit more extensive since we purchased a house together, not just rented. But still, these were her top 3 big items.
I think I’m drawn, perhaps, to a butch with certain qualities. Handy, landscapy, hot in all kinds of clothes, and an excellent cook. Yes, I’ll have me one of those, pleaseandthankyou : )
I love how our differences really shine when looking at places to live. What’s important to her is often different than what’s important to me, or just not as important.
- She doesn’t want a big yard because she doesn’t want to have to take care of a big yard. I, however, would love a big yard, but I don’t necessarily feel like I would love to take care of it : ) Besides, she’s just so much better and efficient at it than I am. Seems silly.
- She wants a space for her tools and work equipment, a place easily accessible to the outdoors. I want an extra bedroom so I can have an office/library/craft room/all-things-Jen space.
- She wants a safe place for her two vehicles, preferably in a garage or a designated space where she can keep an eye on them and love them. As long as I can park on the same street, I’m ok.
- She wants a nice outdoor space – a place where we can put a table so we can eat outside and entertain out there. That would be nice, for sure, but I’m not married to that. My priority is a cozy place in the house where I can write uninterrupted with my chai or zone out with a good book.
The great thing is that we’re doing our best to find a place that we both will love, a place that can accommodate all our wants and needs. It’ll be interesting to see what will happen when we begin to decorate the place. (Country/Antique vs. Modern City. Hmm. Looks like a little meshing will be taking place!).
I can’t believe that I’ll be in my own place in a few weeks. In a new city. Living with my gf for the first time.
I have a young family on my mom’s side. Another way I like to say that, affectionately, is that my grandmom & mom were “little hussies.” My great-grandmom will be 89 on Halloween; my grandmom is 64; my mom is 46, soon to be 47; I’m 28. You do the math.
Mostly, I feel lucky to have such a young family. I mean, how many people get to be 28 with a great-grandmom? I realize that not everyone gets to experience their family for this long, and I’m grateful for it.
My great-grandmom babysat my brother and I when we were little, and she now needs 24-hour care because of her dementia, as I’ve written about before. The role reversal is painful for me to watch; I did not expect to be this young and have to help care for and watch the decline of someone I love. As a young adult, when I began to contemplate death and the future, I really only thought about my mom. I thought about how I’d get to live a relatively easy life (concerning the caring of my elderly parents), as I figured I wouldn’t be dealing with that until I was at least, what, 60? Although I’m not Gram Wis’s primary care giver, I still help whenever I can and care very deeply about her; I’m very close with her. I suppose it’s simply – heartbreaking. I keep thinking to myself that I hope the genetics of dementia disappear and bypass my grandmom and my mom and me because to go through this another two times would be devastating.
My uncle had taken her to the bathroom when a neighbor knocked on the door, so he instructed her to stay put until he came back. He talked to the neighbor for a little longer than he planned. When he came back in, Gram was in the living room, completely naked, sitting in her chair. When he asked her what she was doing, and then told her she was naked, something must have clicked and she realized what she did, and she started crying, apologizing, saying that she doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. Besides the fact that she didn’t know what to do when left alone, so she choose to get naked and go in the living room, she shouldn’t be walking without a walker – she can easily kill herself or seriously injure herself. I could barely keep from crying when my mom told me the story – and this is just becoming common.
I don’t wish for her death; I love having her in my life. But this is no way to live. It’s devastating to watch her because she understands that she’s “not OK” and she “doesn’t know what to do with herself.” She’ll tell you that she used to remember things, or know how to cook, or know how to go to the bathroom … but she just can’t recall anymore. That’s the worst part – her suffering. On her “bad” days, she’ll cry to me and tell me that she wishes God would take her. I can’t bear to hear it anymore. My heart hurts too much for her.
I pray to a god that I don’t even believe in to make the days easier for her. To bring her peace. She deserves it.