Moving house. Surrounded by boxes and so, so uninspired to open them.
We’ve been here two weeks.
I’m tired. Tried to drink a glass of wine the other night. I could literally feel the alcohol travelling through my blood stream, turning my limbs to lead. In place of the usual pleasant buzz, my body ached. I am already a broken shell, it cried, why are you filling me with poison?
Help! My wine is broken...
So this is where I’m at. The place where even wine won’t help.
The thing about moving with three kids is that life goes on. School lunches must be made and clothes must be washed and dried and folded and put away. Jesus, clothes! You demand so much of me.
And there’s no time for my own feelings about moving because the kids are feeling all the same things, too, and so I’m the rock. The one true and solid thing they can count on when everything else is chaos.
God help any child when I am the solid thing in their life.
I don’t feel solid. I feel heavily weighted, yes but not grounded, oh no. The truth is I’m a mess. Exhausted and fragile. My worries are rattling, rattling in my brain and I am failing, falling, flailing. Sleep has become increasingly difficult.
I have been consoling myself that after death and divorce only comes the stress of moving. Then I googled this just to be sure and the first article I read debunked the claim. So I’m back to feeling like a pretty hopeless human being who can’t handle the realities of life.
I love this house. Love where we have moved to. But I don’t know how to fit my old life into this one. But my old life didn’t fit into my old house either though so it’s pretty obvious I need to downsize. Clear out. Own less shit.
So I bought three new cacti at Bunnings.
What is wrong with me?
I’ve been thinking a lot about getting stoned lately. I suppose it’s in response to the constant movement of my life – mentally as well as physically. I would like to be still, with a dopey grin on my face. I haven’t been stoned in many, many years and my anxiety being what it is, I have grave concerns about how pot would make me feel now. In my quest for peace, I would probably end up with a full-blown panic attack. Thank you, brain. You suck.
Once upon a time, I would have gotten over periods of turmoil like this by going to bed early, quietly reading, watching mindless telly, just being gentle with myself. But it’s difficult to hit the hay at 7pm when even your 2-year-old is still awake. Me time is way, way, waaay down the list.
And so I’m hatching escape plans. Like smoking weed. Like going to sleep and not waking up for a week. Like getting in my car and driving off the edge of forever. But I won’t do any of those things and so instead, I’ll procrastinate on social media for an hour, replenish my energy levels with too many carbs, and so goeth the perpetual shame spiral that is my life right now.
If you see me in the street, I’ll smile and chat. You won’t have a clue that any of this is going on. She looks a bit pale, a bit tired, you might think to yourself.
What I know for sure is that many women, maybe most of them, are handling their shit better than me. But for those of you who fall apart quite easily, I am here to say you are not alone. There are a million blogs to tell you how to be a better mum/wife/housewife/chef/crafter/lifestyler. I love those blogs, too. But sometimes they make me feel like I’m the only one who does not make school lunches fashioned into still life art using only toothpicks and love.
I’ll pull myself together. I always do. But I’ll make sure I really beat the hell out of myself with guilt until then. Because nurturing.
In addition, I have learnt that disgruntled cats will piss on the keyboard (on the fucking keyboard??!?!) and of course, you should just throw the fucking thing away but you’ve already paid for a term of lessons for your kid who is obviously going to be a rockstar so FUCK.
Also, moving will undo all that excellent present-buying organisation when the gift you purchased months out from your goddaughter’s first birthday is lost in a sea of boxes and good luck finding out which one.
Ho-hum, ho-hum, ho-hum.
I wonder what it must feel like to be a grown-up? And at 38, will I ever be one?
Two weeks later
Hello from the school holidays and still, it’s Box City around here.
Progress is slow but my self-loathing has slowed a little, too, which is a welcome change.
It was cold, cold, cold here in Melbourne and that was not helpful to my general demeanour. But then I read the weather forecast a few days back and realised that summer was not yet over. So what did I do? I went and got me a spray tan, that’s what, and I’ve been wearing shorts for the last few days because you’ve got to embrace the moment. Is it ideal that I would not dream of exposing my bare legs without the appearance of a tan? No. But that’s my current reality. A bit of tan doesn’t just give me more confidence to get my legs out, it makes me feel a bit sexy. So who can argue with feeling sexy?
Just grasping for happy wherever I find it, y’know?
But doesn’t it lie in the laughter of your children, Angie? Oh sure. For about three minutes. Fake tan happiness lasts for 3-5 days (dependent on pre-exfoliation and post-moisturising)!
New cacti going strong and looking great on my front balcony.
Wine is back to mostly having excellent medicinal qualities. Mostly. I just need to be careful not to have a glass too early or I am liable to lie down for a little rest and never get up again.
We finally caught up with dear friends and finally asked them to be in our wedding party. There were tears and bubbles. Great combo.
And leaving all moving woes aside, we have moved into THE greatest street in the history of streets. Amazing neighbours, walking proximity to the boys’ school. Seriously, this joint is the business.
And my legs. My god, they look fabulous.
Stella has not yet got her groove back. But how can you blame her? She still has no interwebz connection!*
* This blog brought to you by the power of pre-paid pocket Wi-Fi. Hashtag FML.