I don’t even know where to begin. My body is making sounds I’ve never heard before, and it’s not gas.
In short, moving = severe psychic trauma.
I’ve always been a terrible mover. The loading and lifting is actually relatively easy compared to dredging through the all the hubris-infused boxes filled with the past. Being surrounded by boxes labeled “Misc.” or “Junq” is like being stuck in a time machine and knowing that even if you can escape, the time machine is still sitting there, with it’s controls stuck on: Bad Day/Your Past/Bad Year(s). You open those boxes and stand transfixed by a photo you thought you’d lost or a letter from a dead relative or a college notebook. The items themselves may not be actual representatives of the badness, but they act as a conduit to mental wandering and emotional damage.
To be truly bipolar, I have to say that being a homeowner is wonderful. Finally, I don’t have to worry about security deposits or downstairs neighbors. I want my dog to bark. I want to play bad music loudly. I want to know my neighbors and their kids and dogs. It’s so dreamy and like that scene in Superman where Margot Kidder and Christopher Reeves are shot through the vaseline-coated lens and look fuzzy and schmoopy-gooey. Pair that with the 2400mg of Advil® and we’re talking serious delirium.
It’s time for some flatline brainwave activity. Operation Dumbo Drop, anyone?