Messy Stressy Life
I am not really sure how to stay standing with the ground moving underneath me so much. I am wired, brittle, quick to snap, jumpy as I wait for the next tremor. My anxiety is through the roof. I’m lucky and I’ve never had a panic attack, but I came pretty close yesterday. This week we showed our Michigan home a dozen times- which meant cleaning and leaving, and allowing strangers in, all during a pandemic. We received an offer, but it’s pending, so as much as I want to check that box, the pen is made of smoke. We searched for, found, and lost some rental houses in California, as real estate out there is bananas- and we’re trying to make decisions from across the country regarding schools (is that still a thing???) and where we’ll want to be during and after (??) the pandemic. What car will we take? What couch? How can we most safely get all of us and our stuff there? Should we just start over? Can we afford to do it? Can we afford NOT to do it? Constantly re-evaluating our priorities, who we are, who and where we want to be. All of these decisions we’re trying to make under the gray, claustrophobic sky. Plus, Robb’s started the new job- remote, new guy, from a different time zone…all the pressure. He’s handling it like a bad-ass, but, damn. It’s a lot.
And, fucking Christmas (see below)
We’re starting to say goodbye to the people here who really, really don’t want us to leave. Their tears are hard. I really, really need to do what’s right for my family, and right now, that means income and sunshine, both found across the country from where we live now. It’s a relief when people who love us understand our needs instead of holding our decision against us. It’s a confusing, frightening time enough, and I’m doing my best just to keep the heads in my home above water. I will surely drown if I need to carry the weight of anyone else’s feelings right now.
The stress isn’t just trying to make decisions on all the logistics while kids are screaming at me, it’s also the emotions of moving from a place I’ve lived 37 of my 40 years…and the identity fuck of it all. This last few years I went from being a P.A., to a small businesswoman, to a full-time mom/home school teacher. Somewhere, sitting politely in a wooden chair in a sliver of sunlight, there’s my writer self, patiently waiting for me to come back to her, too. Can the dream of writing by the ocean ever be real? Can we really do this? Should we? Are we being selfish? If so…is that bad?
I’m spinning, the ground is cracking. All of it feels like too much. Can we pull this all off and all of us end up safely where we’re meant to be- healthy, financially secure, feet on a new, more solid ground?
I know I’m an asshole for fretting on these very first world problems. We have a job, money, home, health, and people who love us. I appreciate and honor all that, but I still have to figure out the chess pieces and how to play it out. And it’s hard.
