"It takes at least a month to move, and to get everything settled."
I did not believe this statement. I was so sure, so confident that I could move more quickly than that, that I did not pay any further attention to that statement or any of the other advice I received.
"Pack bathroom and kitchen last; unpack them first."
I had a better way, a better system and, having never packed up all my worldly belongings before, was confident that I knew better than anyone else. I began moving September 26, 2011, and now on November 16, 2011, I can confidently tell you that I am almost completely settled in to the new place.
I'm a little sad that the surreal feeling I had the first couple of weeks is all but gone now. Distinctly, I can remember walking through this house, thinking it so enormous, feeling as though I was an intruder. I kept waiting for the real tenants to show up any minute, demanding I leave their house. Even as I began placing my things into their new places ("Everything has a place; everything in its place" is an adage that was more like law when I was growing up), still I felt like I didn't belong here. Not in a house as nice as this.
I guess there is still some part of me that expects it to all be taken away. It's a silly feeling to have; we are only renting this house. It's not like we own it. But the house were we used to live, the duplex, was so small, that it really only had a couple of rooms. I could walk from one end to to the other in just a few steps. It had...other problems...as well. I am confident that had we not called the property management company about the toilet, it would have sunk into the floor one day, possibly with me on it. The tiles in the shower were likewise succumbing to the lure of gravity. And the linoleum, so old and so yellow--it reminded me constantly of "The Yellow Wall-paper." It was in the kitchen, too, this linoleum. No amount of cleaning, mopping or scrubbing could ever make that floor look clean.
If truth be told, the floor wasn't the only thing I had given up on in that house. We also had two cats, and in a space that small (less than 500 square feet), cat hair was a constant. My husband, Raven, also has a large book collection, which itself collected cat hair and dust. I gave up dusting after a while, too. I lived there a long time, too long really. As a kid, I moved every three to four years, and that became something of a habit. Then I married Raven, and became antsy and anxious when three years became five, then seven, then nine. I don't think I've ever stayed in a house that long, and that was not the house for it. It was impossibly hard, it seemed at the time, to live in that house. I don't think I ever really lived there. No, it was more like I existed there. Nothing could ever look clean, and no amount of straightening could ever make it look uncluttered. Too much stuff for such a small space. To Raven's credit, he did throw out more things than I ever thought him capable of, but a lifetime of possessions can fill up a house in no time. I didn't live in a home; I lived in a storage facility.
Every time I would try to do anything in the kitchen, something would invariably fall on my head, whether from the one kitchen cabinet (with one drawer) or from the makeshift pantry (an end table set on top of the fridge). Look at your kitchen now. Can you imagine having just one cabinet, with just one drawer? Either you know what I'm talking about, or you couldn't possible fathom it. It wasn't just the things, though. We also had too many pets: three dogs and two cats. Combine them with two people and less than 500 square feet, and we had a potential disaster on our hands.
I spent my 20s in that house, and as much as I hated it, I can't seem to remember now why that hate was so strong. It seems now that I can only remember the good things about that house. I learned a lot about how to live like an adult in that house. That place, which always felt more like a storage facility than a home, is the place where I built my marriage. It was where I learned what a reasonable number of animals means for my family. Growing up in the country, I never learned that two dogs is enough for me. I learned there that one's surroundings go a long way in establishing one's identity. And I learned that one should never move bit by bit. The best way to move--pack it all up, move it in a day, and then unpack.
While the surreal feeling is gone, the feeling that I don't belong, it is gradually being replaced with other feelings, deeper and less fleeting ones. This is a real house, and I can live here. My days of just existing are behind me. I can't stop thinking about the future and wondering if someday all of this will be taken away, and someone I'll end up back in that tiny duplex, or one just like it. Living in the present is something that has never been easy for me, but for the first time, I have the space to try.
Just how much space? Well, I've spent countless minutes wandering around this place, looking for my phone. I think I may have even lost a couple of pounds, walking from one side of the house to other. I can breathe here. I can read and concentrate here. Who knows what else I'll be able to do here? If living is better than existing, is there something better than living?
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