The good stuff:
1.We have a place to live for the next three months. It’s a house at the corner of Terrace Hill St and Wells Ave, has three bedrooms, 1 1/2 baths, and is partially furnished. It has the big stuff, we’ll make do for the rest. The kids can walk to school, so no racing around in the morning trying to get Sean to his bus before the driver heads out…
2. I have my scrapbooking area sorted, cleaned and packed.
3. The sun is out.
4. Those fucking Scout neckers are FINISHED! 16 adult, 12 youth. DONE DONE DONE. Finally.
5. I had a nice visit with Marion at Cedar Lodge on the weekend.
That’s it for the good stuff, go away if you don’t want to hear me bitch because that’s pretty much what the rest of the post is about.
I swear before all that I hold holy that if one more person says to me, “Oh, but it’ll be so nice when it’s all done!” I am going to pound them viciously over the head with anything I can lay my hands on. Do they honestly think I don’t KNOW that? Remember, I’m the one who stood in the middle of my godawful laundry room trying to picture it as it will be with a ceiling, proper flooring and drywalled walls, and burst into tears of excitement and joy. So yeah, I totally GET that it’s going to be incredible when it’s done.
But why does no one seem to comprehend just how much stress this is causing me now? Maybe to all those people who move house every couple of years this is nothing, but the idea of packing up and moving my family to a temporary home for three months is really upsetting to me. It might be different if I were packing everything, but the sorting is hard. Trying to anticipate what might be needed at some point in the next three months. Will they need swim stuff? Or not? Should I take the iron? Or not? The majority of stuff that does need to go can’t really be packed until the days right before the move. Which makes me feel now like I am very not ready. I am the sort of person who has lists and plans and has things ready and organized weeks ahead. I can’t do that this time, and it’s going against everything I am. So that’s issue number one – the sorting and trying to determine what needs to go and what can stay.
Next, let’s talk Typhoid Mary. Or Mould Spore Susie, if you’d prefer. It’s not like this mould shit has suddenly materialised in my home and life. It’s been here all along. Nothing’s changed. Wait – yes, what has changed is that now people know about it, and suddenly I find myself persona non grata. My designer wears old clothes when she comes to my house because her husband has allergies and she’s afraid of taking spores home to him. I’ve been told to take as little as possible with me to the other house for fear of taking mould spores along. I’ve been made to feel like I’m shedding mould spores as I walk. I feel dirty, unwashed, unwelcome, and it hurts. I’ve had people question the wisdom of taking anything with me. I’ve been told to leave my scrapbooking stuff at home so it can be “cleaned”. I’ve been told I should just buy all new clothes and leave everything else here to be “cleaned”. Do you have any idea how much all of this hurts me? I’m already dealing with the stress of trying to figure out what to take, but to be made to feel as if anything I do take is going to contaminate the world? Thanks. And what I find interesting is how few people have stepped forward and offered to actually help me move. Do they feel they’re going to take mould home to grow in their own houses if they touch anything that belongs to Untouchable Me?
What I do appreciate is those people who are trying to make it easier for me. The person who is loaning me two air mattress beds for my kids to sleep on. The person who is giving me a complete set of dishes for 12, already packed, so I don’t have to bother packing and moving my own.
And the final big thing, which it really seems no one in the world can relate to at all – I don’t know, maybe I’m just weird, but the idea of being out of my home for three months is very distressing to me. I have a home. I have roots here. All my things are here. I KNOW I’m going to come back here, but the point is, for three months my kids and I will not be living in our HOME. I don’t know how else to put it into words, but I HATE that idea. It hurts a lot.
Finally, I have a wonderful holiday booked for July, and all I can think about is the stress I’m under and wondering whether we’ll even be settled in our house in time to pack for the trip. I should be excited about the trip, but instead I find myself wishing I’d never booked it. I really, really, really HATE that feeling.
So you know what; I’m sorry if I’ve been down lately. I’m sorry if I seem depressed about what everyone else thinks should be happy happy joy joy. I’m sorry if you can see the beautiful forest that my house will be and all I can see right now are the huge fucking trees blocking my view. I do my best not to let people see how I really feel. I cry in the shower every morning instead of where anyone can see or hear me. I don’t answer the phone when I’m having a meltdown because no one wants to hear my problems. Everyone seems to figure I have loads of money, can do and afford anything I want, therefore my life should be perfect. Newsflash – money doesn’t buy happiness, and while it is certainly easing this mouldy road, it isn’t solving my problems. In fact, if you really think about it – it’s created them.