Finding some quiet time (and some space) to myself when you live with people is hard. Living with people is hard.
There, I said it. It’s hard.
That’s not to say it’s not amazing, and rewarding, and fun too. But the adjusting is hard. For everyone.
I’m apparently very particular. Sam says OCD. Po-tay-toes, po-tah-toes. I like my things where/how I like my things.
Saturday Sam and I went and got a lot of my stuff from storage. I put most of my life in storage January 25, 2014. At the time I thought “for only a couple of weeks”. Things didn’t work out the way I thought they would, and “a few weeks” ended up being a year.
We got there Saturday morning, and I had an idea of what I HAD to bring back, what I WANTED to bring back, and what I COULDN’T bring back. Those lists went out the window when I saw my stuff. I wanted to bring home ALL THE THINGS!!
I got all my clothes (I have lived in jeans and hoodies, tee shirts and shorts for a year) and all my shoes (oh how I have missed my shoes) my books and most of my kitchen stuff.
I kept dragging boxes out I need this, or We need to take this and Sam is a saint. The man never said No to me. He never said “We don’t have room” he just said “Whatever makes you happy” and somehow found room for every single box I wanted to take.
Now that all of my stuff is here,
we I have boxes sitting everywhere, with a path through the rooms. He may have found room in the truck for all of my stuff, but the real challenge now becomes finding room in the house for all of my stuff.
Opening my boxes, seeing my things that I haven’t seen in a year was very emotional. I put all of that stuff away in what feels like a different lifetime. I was a different person then. I was broken. I was just beginning to put my life back together. I had accepted (as well as I could) that the girls would not live with me again. There was very little of their things in storage. Just a small box of things I wanted to keep that they had left behind when they went to live with their dad.
There are memories in every box I open. A story with every shirt, every pair of shoes. When I packed up my house, I was still clinging so desperately to a vision of what I wanted my life to look like. In the year since I packed everything up, I have grown, and changed, and let go of things I could no longer hold on to. But my things didn’t let go. A part of my life was in limbo for the past year.
And so, with the unpacking, I am saying goodbye as much as I am saying hello. There is a sadness in the goodbye, the final ending of chapters. My fragmented life is being made whole. It looks nothing like what I hoped it would when I packed it away.
I am home now. My things are here. My fragmented life is mostly in one place, and that is to say it’s in boxes all over the house. (I’m sure people are tired of the obstacle course it takes to get to the kitchen or through the living room. For everything I find, I lose three, and then I panic and freak out until I find them again. It’s all kinds of fun up in this place.
But in the midst of all this fun, one thing I know for sure. I am home.