I didn’t want to move, not really, not now. But it was decided that it was time to buy. I had just changed positions, changed titles, and received a pay-raise. I was ready for a chill summer, but instead, we embarked on one of the most stressful events that a person can experience. We weren’t expecting to find a place quickly, or then to have an offer accepted immediately, with a closing date that was almost immediate. But, there were were, finding the perfect place, having the offer accepted, and then with two weeks to pack up and move.

I cleaned out my closet, again. I decided to actually try things on, regretted that decision, but shed so many pieces of clothing, as my body has…changed over the pandemic. I guess it was a good thing, ultimately, but it still hurt, still left me raw. Put it in a box, to give away, to resell, to recycle. If it only was so easy to shed all of the weight that comes with this change, this shift, all of the changing and shifting and uncertainty.

I haven’t been sewing, since the offer was accepted, and it was time to put things away to make room for all the things that needed to be packed. On the day we closed on the house, we showed up for one final walk-though and there was water in the basement. The basement where I was to have my office and sewing room. And so we’ve moved, but I still haven’t been able to sew, haven’t been able to make, create, practice self-care and self-love.

I realize how much I came to rely on sewing for those things. Clothes that feel good. Clothes that look good. Clothes that are mine. An activity that is just for me. The kids both have the bedroom of their dreams, my husband has his dream home, and I…I am sitting in the dining room, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting for the basement to be done. Waiting to be able to set it up and see what I want to do with the space. Waiting to see what the Delta variant brings. Waiting to see if my class makes. Waiting to see what classes I’m offered. Waiting to get news about my manuscript. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

A few weeks ago, I fell apart. As bad as it has ever been. Unable to stop crying. Unable to stop spiraling. Unable to see any further into the future beyond a minute at a time, and even then. Moment to moment was tenuous. And then I woke up, and it was over, and I think it was the worst PMS of my life or maybe I’m 44 and I’m waiting for the change of life, but the period of waiting can be awful. Or it was all of the above, all of it, and it was too much.

Or maybe it’s because my kids are at an age where, really, I am superfluous to them in most situations. I feel like I am in some sort of stasis, waiting for someone to call on me so I can be useful, and when no one needs me, I am just…existing.

So much of me right now is stuffed into boxes, scattered around, hidden, half-unpacked, strewn about in dark rooms and piles and corners and hidden away, or at least unfound. This is both literal and figurative. There is no space for anything and everything. Nothing is where it should be, it has nowhere to go.

I can’t sew, haven’t really been able to write. Even this post, that I have been putting off writing, is a slog. But I have to write it, if only that I want to make sense of something, anything. I am just trying to get through this, with the goal of finishing something for me. Catching up on my podcasts so I feel a little less alone. Hearing people talk whom I am not related to.

This weekend is my birthday. I hate my birthday. Not because it reminds me I am getting old, but reminds me of all of the people that I miss, please whom I would love to be spending time with on my birthday but can’t, for whatever reason. I am once again in a place that I didn’t even conceive of being in on the previous birthday. We will spend my birthday weekend finally finishing unpacking, setting up the basement(s), and I will have my office and sewing room, and we will also have a family room again.

Maybe then I’ll be able to rest.