waaaaaaaay too much information

 

hi. my name is sherry and i hate my body.

well. that’s mostly true. two things can be true at the same time.

i appreciate my body. she’s healthy. no broken bones. no chronic illness. no major issues. i even managed to miss the genetic conditions. this body? she’s literally supported me through sports, babies, countless bruises, bumps, and falls. almost all my sick days have been for kids. even covid only took me down for 2 days. i appreciate her strength and resilience. i appreciate that she’s held it together for me this long. if you know how clumsy i am, you’ll know what a testament that is. 

and also, i HATE my body.

i’ve been a size 20 since about 2006. i’ve been up to 285 lbs and down to 200 lbs. still a size 20 at both ends of the literal scale. i’m too tall for regular sizes, too poor for tall sizes. my feet are an obnoxious size that only recently started existing in the shoe world and only at one specific shoe store. my options are ugly or uglier when it comes to footwear. my torso is weirdly long, my waist is in the wrong spot, my hips are generously wide, my butt…well…as my mom always put it: “...you have a shelf butt.” still not 100% sure what that means; i’m for sure not a kardashian balancing a champagne bottle on it. i’m covered in stretch marks from two babies (thankfully very faded now), and, worse to me, acne scars.

oh, everyone gets acne when they’re a teenager.

i get it. i do. poor suzie had a small pimple on her forehead before the prom. oh no! i haven’t been a teenager in…well…it’s offensive to do the math. it was a year that started in 19. so. a while ago. 

but i’ve had and still have deep, cystic acne since my early teens. EVERYWHERE. jaw line? yup. there wasn’t a coverup strong enough in the 90’s. so much for COVERgirl. it didn’t cover shit. back/chest? yup. want to wear a cute low cut top? fuck off. want to wear spaghetti straps? in what universe?

and, worst of all, thighs.

how do you explain to a partner: “...no, that’s not an STD, just a really gruesome looking deep tissue cyst that’s been with me since 2007.”

go to my regular doctor, they tell me to see a dermatologist. dermatologist tells me to see an obgyn. obgyn tells me to see a derm or a gp. and NONE of them can help me. i did that loop a grand total of twice before giving up. mostly because who the fuck has the insurance and appointment time to end up where you started, just more embarrassed? 

lotions, scrubs, dry brushes, massage, shaving/waxing, NOT shaving/waxing, dietary changes, exercise programs, topical medications, prescribed medications. i’ve spent THOUSANDS, and i literally mean THOUSANDS of dollars on my skin.

why do i bring this up?

more information than anyone ever wanted to know about my thighs?

i’m 45. i’m tired of hating my body.

i’ve finally reached the point where i don’t mind looking in the mirror in the morning.

from the waist up.

my face *finally* mostly matches between my brain and my reflection. it’s glorious. no more stranger danger while i’m putting on my mascara. no more bracing for the worst and looking away as quickly as possible. no more wanting to cry from seeing my dad staring back at me.

editor’s note: my dad was a very handsome gentleman; he was able to grow a glorious moustache. i do not want to be a handsome gentleman with a glorious moustache.

but i’m 45 now. i’m at my hormonal peak. my sex drive is through the roof. i finally look pretty. i finally feel pretty.

with my clothes on.

it’s so annoying. it’s so frustrating. it’s so embarrassing.

hot tub? sure. let me grab my mom swim suit with the skirt. summer time? since shorts are only made in “up the ass crack” length these days, pants it is. cute sun dress? let me ruin it by wearing some shorts under it just in case. bedtime? where are my sweats?

well, to be fair, even if i had good thighs i would still wear sweats to bed. i refuse to risk being outside naked when there’s a fire.

anyway. childhood fears and family trauma aside, always covered from the waist down.

how do you get over hating yourself? how do you learn to accept the things that stubbornly refuse to change?

i haven’t figured it out yet. i’m just waiting for menopause to hit. maybe THEN i’ll finally be able to outgrow it.

women talk about reaching the magical age of giving zero fucks. i’m 90% there. when does that last 10% kick in?

as usual, there’s no point, just me oversharing on the internet to the one’s of people who stumble into this strange little corner of my brain.

manifesting 2026

it’s 14 days in to the new year and my journal has the date written down 4 times with only one actual worded entry.

off to a smashing start.

to be fair, 2025 was an unusually prolific year for journaling. not so much for blogging, but better than the covid years.

it’s not that my brain has slowed down, at all. it’s that my hands have drastically slowed down (fucking secretary hands anyway) and my ability to hold a thought long enough to actually chase it down to a logical end AND RECORD SAID THOUGHT is almost non-existent. i joke about my swiss cheese brain, but it’s honestly less of a joke and more of a huge annoyance.

i haven’t done any new year manifestation work. i haven’t done any resolutions. i’ve had thoughts of goals. i’ve had thoughts of manifestations. i know i have. well, i’m mostly certain i have. at some point, i’m pretty sure, i think.

fucking swiss cheese brain.

they say that 2026, the year of the horse, is the year you get to take off. ride into the sunset. 2025, the year of the snake, was all about shedding what doesn’t belong in your life anymore (did plenty of that) so that in the year of the horse you can ride forward into your future unencumbered. if you didn’t do the necessary work, 2026 is the year you get drug along by the horse. i’ve seen just enough westerns to know that’s not the vibe i’m going for. fingers crossed all the personal work in 2025 was enough.

the last time i was on an *actual* horse was approximately 1991 (?) at camp gilead. if the name surprises you, please remember i was raised in an insanely devout baptist/evangelical household and while the hand maiden’s tale wasn’t a thing yet, the ideology was already being deeply programmed into my brain. camp gilead: christian kids camp complete with emotional nighttime fire circle jesus calls and overly zealous youth pastor energy counselors. and also, horseback riding.

i’m a little rusty when it comes to horses of the physical and metaphorical kind.

what kind of sunset do i want to ride into? what am i hoping to be unencumbered in my pursuit of?

i should manifest a nice caciocavallo podolico brain: rich, nutty, spicy with a hint of sweetness, firm and smooth. enough of this this swiss cheese bullshit. i want to be unencumbered in my pursuit of thought.

but really, what DO i want out of 2026? assuming the world makes it through 2026. which…at this point…maybe we’ll just focus on Q1.

i want to manifest bills that GO AWAY, not bills that instantly get replaced by other bills. paid off the last stella vet bill and instantly had a bill of equal value added to split out my rent deposit. paid off a credit card and had to open a les schwab account the same month. cut my pet expenses, my utility bill went up. i want bills that GO AWAY. this swap out plan is for sure not it. i don’t want anything else finding new ways for money to exit my accounts. i want money to find its’ way INTO my account please.

i want to manifest a closet full of clothes that aren’t situational. i want clothes that are comfortable, in good condition, no matter what day it is. i’m so tired of the morning jenga puzzle- i can wear these leggings if i wear something over it long enough to cover mouse holes. i can wear that dress as long as i don’t mind wearing sneakers with it and looking like a bad melanie griffith 80’s movie. i can wear that jewelry if i haven’t had any salt in the last week and i’m not even thinking about being bloated. i can wear these jeans if i have the right underwear clean otherwise i have high waisted underwear and low cut jeans AND WHO THE FUCK BROUGHT BACK LOW CUT JEANS? i can wear these shoes if i’m not doing any walking today. i can wear that coat as long as i don’t need pockets. it’s exhausting having body dysmorphia that makes you hate yourself and everything you put on your body ON THE BEST DAY. mix in all the fucking hoops and the jumping and the planning and the fucking endless contingencies. it’s so fucking exhausting. i’m mentally drained before 8 am. gods help me if i’m packing an overnight bag to stay at my partner’s house. you want me to plan who she’s going to be tomorrow? i barely have a grip on today and you want me to know who she’s going to be and what clothes are going to work TOMORROW?

i want to manifest  insurance. all the insurance. the brain, the eyes, the teeth, AND the body. i want ALLLLLLLL the insurance. i’m tired of rationing contacts. hoping for no cavities. patching my broken brain with ideas from my broken brain. ignoring all the aches and pains and creaks and pops and mystery bruises that hopefully don’t mean anything more than clumsiness and forgetting i rearranged furniture. i want to go to GOOD doctors. like, actually good ones. not “D’s get degrees” doctors. i want doctors that know more diagnostic words than “stress,” “weight,” or “being female.” i want to know that getting sick won’t be a death sentence. i want to be able to do things like preventative care, routine screenings, regular check up’s, scheduled cleanings, annual exams. maybe, really shooting for the stars, maybe even massage and chiropractic care. a girl can dream. 

i want to manifest time off. actual, real time off. not a holiday when the store(s) is(are) closed. not a sick day. actual time off, maybe, going really wild, a vacation? haven’t had one of those since 2017. time to go somewhere. see something new. experience more than the same 4 restaurants and businesses. stare at different walls. drink whisky in a different bar in a different state (or country). i want time to relax. breathe. not have to count how many hours are in the sick/safe bank and how many i need to keep in case i get actual sick vs how many i can afford to take off. i want to go somewhere and be able to enjoy myself, not worry what day it is, not worry about how taking these days off is going to make the rest of the year stressful. i’ve been working 6 days a week (some of those running into 10 hour days) for the last year. that’s a long time to pull 6 days a week. i’m ready for a break.

i want to manifest laughter. calm. joy. experiences. learning. sharing. comfort. happiness. abundance. support. love. friendship. growth. i want to manifest days at home making pasta and breads and recipes. nights out experiencing art and music and theater and community. i want to have sun soaked afternoons at terrible baseball games and lake days and adventures. evenings snuggled up with books and the attention span to read more than three paragraphs at a time. nights of peaceful, restorative, snore free sleep.

that all feels like too much and barely scratching the surface at the same time.

anyway. there’s a start at least. 

audacity? stupidity? both?

yesterday afternoon i received a text message from my brother.

this is strange for several reasons:

#1 i only talk to my brother about 4 times a year. a random tuesday in november is not one of those 4 times.

#2 my brother is OLD SCHOOL. like severely old school. still uses a flip phone old school for him to TEXT? unheard of.

#3 the message: “you missing a smart watch?”

on so many levels, WHAT??

pause, reread, WHAT??

a smart watch? i mean, i HAD a smart watch, years ago. but is it missing? i don’t know? it was literal YEARS ago.

some dude called my brother, left a voicemail that he had found my smartwatch in the trash, found my brother’s number, called.

WHAT. THE. FUCK? 

so i call verizon.

hey verizon- can you look up on my account when i had a smart watch?

purchased: 2019

deactivated: 12/2022

it’s been deactivated for 3 years. and i KNOW when i deactivated it i did a factory reset on it. so. WHAT THE FUCK??

my brother sends me the voicemail from the dude. i call dude and leave a voicemail for him.

6:20 last night dude calls me back:

hey, i found your smartwatch dumpster diving at this apartment building.

THE APARTMENT I JUST MOVED OUT OF.

i found it about 3 weeks ago.

WHEN I WAS MOVING.

yeah, i dumpster dive all the time and find stuff people throw away and sell it. i found your watch and when i turned it on it had a lock screen but i could see the emergency contact information so i called it.

WHAT. THE. HOLY. FUCK??

so much for a factory reset? like. shouldn’t ALLLLLLLL that information have been removed? like WHAT THE FUCK VERIZON?

also, the sheer audacity. or stupidity. or both.

that apartment ALWAYS. ALWAYS. had people in the dumpster. ALWAYS. it was a constant issue. it changed the way i approach trash. it changed WHAT i throw away. it changed WHEN i could throw things away. i would make sure to only take my trash out on monday mornings at 7:30am because the trash truck came monday mornings at 8. i made sure to peel the labels off EVERYTHING so my name and address wasn’t just floating out there. **SIDE NOTE: online ordering/pick up is amazing, do they have to put my name on EVERY. FUCKING. BAG. with stickers that won’t come off?** i would cut up the fake credit cards in those shitty constant spammy offers, just in case. i would tear everything with ANY personal information into tiny shreds (or take it to work and literally shred it). i LOATHED that there were constantly people in the dumpsters.

my trash consisted of 80% potty pads from stella and 20% trash from the house. that’s DISGUSTING to dig through. used potty pads? ugh. the smell alone.

and this dude was openly admitting to digging through it, TO SELL THINGS.

i don’t even remember throwing the watch away. if anything it was maybe in one of the bags that was purge stuff that wasn’t quite good enough to donate (no one wants leggings with  mouse holes in them or sheets that were used as stella bedding). i’m sure it was something that i maybe glanced at, realized it wasn’t working at all when i deactivated it years ago, why put it in a box and take it to a new house?

but that this dude DUG IT OUT, CHARGED IT, TRACKED ME DOWN, and then had the audacity to ask if i remembered the password so he could unlock it and sell it?

MY BROTHER IN CHRIST, FUCK ALL THE WAY OFF.

no, you can’t have the password. smash it with a hammer. it was bricked out 3 years ago to begin with, you DUG THROUGH A DUMPSTER to find it, you dug through MY PERSONAL TRASH to find it, you VIOLATED MY PRIVACY tracking me down through emergency contacts, and you want me to just give you the password so you can try to sell it to someone?

FUCK. ALL. THE. WAY. OFF.

fuck i hated that building. dumpster divers were CONSTANT. all day, all night. didn’t matter what time i got home or left, there was someone digging through it, fenty folding next to it, or camped out in the alleyway next to it.

also: fuck apple and fuck verizon. what the fuck good is a FACTORY RESET if it still leaves information on the device??

as a domestic violence survivor? as an intimate partner abuse survivor? as a rape survivor? as someone who has been threatened with death from men SO MANY TIMES…are you fucking kidding me?

some dude digging through a dumpster can just track me down? from a 6 year old smart watch? that was disconnected 3 years ago? that was factory reset??

ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME?

fuck verizon. fuck apple. fuck that building. fuck that shitty dumpster. fuck all of it.

AND ALSO:

thank you to the universe for keeping me safe for 6 years. thank you for not having this happen while i was still living there.

it’s fascinating that as soon as i asked the universe to remove the wards from that building and place them on my new home it INSTANTLY showed how protected i’d been. it makes me feel even safer in my new home. the wards obviously work. very, very well. thank you to my guardians. my ancestors. my protectors. my hell hounds. thank you for keeping me safe for the last 6 years. of all the things that happened in that shit building? i was remarkably safe through all of it. yes, i had death threats. yes, there were multiple dead bodies. yes, there were people breaking in through the fire escapes and the roof access and the main doors CONSTANTLY. in the 6 years i was there, i only had 2 unexpected knocks at my door: one from a neighbor who thought he could flirt, the other from another neighbor needing some help. for all the drug dealing and human trafficking and theft and destruction, i was remarkably safe. my car was gone through a few times but never damaged. i was threatened a few times but never harmed. my guardians have been working hella overtime the last 6 years. i hope this new place gives them a bit of a break.

speaking of the new place: all the boxes are empty. all the plants are in their new spaces. all the decorating things have found their new homes. all the things are put away. all but hanging art is done. i’ve met most of my new neighbors now. there’s the nice older gentleman that just moved in who was raking the leaves off the sidewalk. there’s the nice lady about my age with a pure black english bulldog named fat mama. there’s the two nice early 30’s gals above me that have 2 cats. there’s the single guy from iowa who is a regular at my bar. that’s 5 our of 7 units and the one across from me is empty right now, so basically everyone. my mail has been re-routed and the key on the box has been replaced. my first maintenance request is already completed. it is SO FANTASTIC. 

I KNOW (almost) ALL MY NEIGHBORS. and they’re nice, normal people. i’m settled in and so happy. 

as mad as i am about the smartwatch, i’m also that grateful for my new space. life is all about balance i guess.

chapter 45

 

well.

45 sure has started off with a bang.

october was a month.

october was a LOOOOOOOOOOOOONG month. 

it started with letting go of stella and ended with moving.

that’s a lot of change and letting go and literally moving on for ONE. FUCKING. MONTH.

i really hope november lets me take a moment to catch my breath.

i will say though: through it all, i am so eternally grateful to the universe for how well it all went.

i moved in 2 hours.

TWO. HOURS.

that’s insane.

7 people in total, myself, my partner, a co-worker, my kid, and his crew of helpers.

TWO. HOURS.

two trucks, one trailer, and several trips in the mini cooper. parking directly out front of the new place for unloading. everyone showed up on time, got to work, hammered it out (and back in) in TWO. HOURS. 

now that it’s all done and over and i’m not going to jinx anything: the lease worked out. the new manager was on time with the keys. the weather was PERFECT. after a solid week of rain i had 2 days of perfect weather: no rain, no snow, no blazing sun, just a happy goldilocks JUST RIGHT. no injuries. NO INJURIES. third floor. satan’s staircase. multiple trips by multiple people. NO INJURIES. i had exactly the right number of boxes to get all the plants out on the last trip. the only thing broken in sacrifice to the moving gods was a $20 mirror. I CAN DEAL WITH THAT. i plugged in my router at the new place and the internet worked. i turned on the floorboards and the heat worked. i plugged in lamps and the eclectic worked. my furniture fits EXACTLY in the new place. i mean EXACTLY. to the perfect inch.

no more drug dealers. no more squatters. no more dumpster divers. no more freezing all winter. no more sirens. no more parking lot lights and flood lights and building lights.

this was, in every possible sense of the experience, the perfect move. everyone met up at 11 and we were having pizza and beer by 1.

i am so insanely grateful. the universe aligned exactly and i am SO GRATEFUL.

friends and one of my bosses help with money. my brother not only sent me money, he didn’t even lecture me first AND wished me a “happy new chapter.” the same brother that called me a frog with a lighter under my ass once upon a time. no lecture, financial help, AND good wishes? amazing. 

a friend offered a hot tub night on saturday that was MUCH NEEDED. i was able to get sunday off work to be able to unpack. i had enough time to get enough things put away that i was able to get ready for work this morning without stepping over any boxes. AND MAKE COFFEE. coffee in the new place on a monday morning before work without stepping over boxes. that’s a good start to the week.

i am so grateful for how this weekend went.

in all my moves (so many moves), this one was by far the best and easiest.

i am so grateful.

i’ve met several of the new neighbors- one has an english bulldog named fat mama. broke my heart and healed it all at the same time. one of my neighbors spent sunday clearing the leaves off the sidewalk. already 100000000% improvement.

october was a kick in the teeth.

for sure.

but sometimes i think you need a kick in the teeth to remind you to get up out of the dirt. why are your teeth at kicking level girl? it might be time to elevate.

i did some full moon work last thursday and the message was loud and clear:

There is a new foundation. You are disconnecting and disengaging from an old way of being. The Taurus full moon focuses on home, routine, security, foundation, food, and cooking.

Are you really comfortable? Or just in your comfort zone?

Give yourself the ability to see life in a new way.

You’ve paid off old karma, it’s time to open up a new timeline.

YOU DON’T KNOW ME! good lord. not even a single ounce of energy spent trying to deny the universe speaking DIRECTLY TO ME on that one. (source: Chris Corsini Full Moon In Taurus workshop).

the number 9 in numerology is all about endings. 4+5=9. 2+0+2+5=9. that’s a LOT of endings all coming together at the same time.

i’m ready for new beginnings. i’m ready for a new timeline. i’m ready to get up out of the dirt and see what comes next.

chapter 45 started with a bang.

let’s see where it goes now.

the herd is on the move

 

famous last words.

i really, really didn’t mean that as a challenge.

and yet…

on the 9th there was a notice from management that as of the 10th they were no longer in charge of the building. i knew the owners (out of state, of course) were terrible, but make an actually decent management company quit on the 10th of the month bad?? can they just get the building taken away already please? they refuse to spend money to repair anything, refuse to deal with any problems, and now it’s now the 28th, no new management, and, more importantly, no heat. it was down to 30* last night. heat is required. even the city can’t figure out who the new management is OR get the heat turned on. the owners should be required to either stay a month in one of the units as is, or forfeit the entire building. out of state landlords are the worst people on earth.

SO, i started looking online and found a cute little one bedroom for just a little more than where i’m at now, turned in an app last night and got approved today.

as ready as i am to say good riddance to my current apartment, am i ready to say goodbye to it?

i’ve been in this apartment the longest i’ve been anywhere in a long while; i think technically even longer than i had the house. i’ve been in this space since 4/2019. six and a half years. the house was 4/2011-4/2017, 4/17-4/19 in the valley, 3 places between moving to spokane in 1/2007 and moving into the house 4/2011. 

it’s been a long six and a half years.

this apartment was an emergency landing spot when everything blew up at the end of 2018 and my youngest moved out suddenly and everything fell apart. this apartment is where i hid (literally and figuratively) to pull myself back together.

this apartment has been my foray into empty nesting. into living alone for the first time ever. TRULY alone. not me and two kids alone. not me and andy in college alone. JUST ME. me and stella: two chunky girls facing the world alone. this apartment got me through what turned out to be a very rough empty nesting transition. through covid and riot lockdowns. through several job changes and an extended unemployment span. through learning how to unmask, how to be completely myself, and then how to be a little less myself (the pendulum swings have mostly balanced out). 

i have such a love hate relationship with this apartment.

there are the 4 most gorgeous east facing windows for my plants. those same windows are 110 years old, don’t open correctly, don’t seal against the weather, and haven’t been cleaned once in the 6 years i’ve lived there.

 

there is the biggest, deepest, covers your boobs and your knees AT THE SAME TIME claw foot tub for soaking in.

that same shower is also extremely temperamental and turns ice cold on you for 2 minutes for no reason before getting as hot as satan’s asshole in texas in august. gods help you if you want to wash your hands at the sink- there’s LAVA HOT water or ice cold water. that’s it. two separate taps. melt the germs (and skin) off or freeze them off. no inbetween. thankfully, the kitchen is 4 steps away with normal mixed water as long as you don’t mind washing your hands and face where you wash your dishes.

and let’s talk about dishes- ONE sink, not a split sink. ONE sink. no dishwasher. no space for a dish rack. you can wash/rinse the dishes as the sink fills up, then drain it and start over again. the nosebleed of doing dishes at this place has literally changed my eating habits to avoid having to do dishes. not exactly the healthiest thing. see also how the fridge door was broken for about 3 years where you had to lift it to close it. that also changed my eating habits. when every. single. time. you open the fridge it’s a pain in your ass, you stop opening the fridge. i’ve lost most of my meager-at-best cooking skills in this apartment. i loathe the thought of being in that kitchen longer than necessary.

while i love how it’s been perfectly enough space for me: livingroom, bedroom, kitchen, bath, it’s also very claustrophobic. turns out you do need outside space. green space. storage space. a bedroom door that closes so people don’t see your bras and underwear first thing. space to have friends over. space to have more than one chair. space to have maybe even a small dining room table for actual meals. not that i ever used a dining room table in all the other places i’ve lived. BUT THE IDEA OF IT.

the space to have friends over. THE SPACE TO HAVE FRIENDS OVER.

there are so many reasons i haven’t had people over to where i live now. satan’s staircase is the main reason. the most insanely steep and tiny stairs that lead straight up with no room for side by side, enjoy looking at my butt for 68 steps. then once you get inside, hi, welcome to my bedroom. it’s *slightly* awkward. would you like to sit on my one chair? or on my bed? not strange at all; no weird expectations when you bring a date home. sorry friends, you need a place to crash for the night? i’ve got a rocking chair. having an indoor pup was also a strong deterrent. welcome to my house, please wait while i clean up dog poop and make it smell better. please don’t ever sit on the rug (which has now been cleaned and you CAN sit on it).

dead bodies are also a strong guest deterrent. 6 bodies in 6 years: the older lady who passed and no one found her for 2 months. the hoarder lady who passed but they found her right away because she was already on the radar for her stuff overflowing in the hallways. there was the overdose that got pulled out of the dealers apartment and

dumped in the hallway. the guy who got shot in the intersection for beating his girlfriend. the combat vet with cancer who hung himself from the fire escape after they raised the rent and took away his service dog (also happened to be the one who shot the abusive boyfriend). 

oh, i guess just five dead bodies. that’s…still terrible.

the building has been a constant chaos storm- a slew of terrible managers lying about inspections and repairs. pipes leaking and breaking, heat not working, entry doors and windows being broken/propped open by drug dealers. people breaking in through the fire escapes and stashing drugs in the laundry room. so many stolen packages. the mice. fuck the fucking mice. the constant dumpster divers. a half dirt parking lot with chunks of metal sticking out of the ground and nary a parking stripe to be found. unhoused encampments in the window wells and alleyways. overdoses and fenty folds on the daily. i’ve lost count of how many fights i’ve heard in the parking lot. how many people have screamed death threats at each other while damaging the building or cars in the lot. i will not miss the constant sirens from the ambulance shack on one side or the even louder fire trucks coming from the other direction. 

i’m more than ready to leave this place behind.

but also.

it’s been home for 6 years. 6 years of hauling groceries and laundry and 30lb bags of dog food up the stairs. 6 years of talking to myself. 6 years of figuring out who i am and what the next chapters will be. 6 years of learning to manage a solo routine, grocery shop for one, being the only one to blame when the remote went missing. that place did get me through covid. it somehow provided it’s own rent relief during the worst of it keeping me from being homeless (thanks to help from the latino center downstairs). it has been (illogically) a safe space for stella and me. i rarely had anyone unexpected knock on my door. i have mostly avoided any interactions with neighbors (aside from one screaming match with the drug dealer who kept stealing packages). my car was only riffled through a few times in the parking lot. the plumbing in my unit somehow always worked, even if the hot water was temperamental. it has been 6 years of closing my door and blocking out everything else. 

it was my home with stella. it seems like a giant betrayal to finally get a ground floor apartment with green space just a few weeks after letting her go. that unexpected tidal wave of grief that hit last night. if only she could have made it another month…

then she would have been home all month alone in the cold. then i wouldn’t be able to afford to move (pet deposits and pet rent are astronomical). then a whole different timeline would be happening. i am heartbroken to make this move without her. i’m also relieved to have a new space that isn’t filled to bursting with every memory and sound of her. no more carrying her chunky little butt up and down the stairs of death.

i don’t know what to think right now.

am i excited to move? ABSOLUTELY. the timing is working out. finances are working out (thanks to some very generous people). it FEELS right.

am i terrified to move? unquestionably. new neighborhood. new neighbors. new morning routine.

am i ready to move? i don’t know. it will take a few nights of tears while packing, i’m sure. i’m sure there will be a few pockets of rage as i clean out closets with left over mice damages. i’m sure a few moments of elation deciding what the new space will look like. where will all the art and plants get to live now. a few moments of exhaustion wondering if it will ever be over. a few more nights of exhaustion trying to remember where i packed the damn pizza cutter.

this isn’t new though. i used to be old hat at moving. 13 times in 13 years at one point. i had it down to a science. boxes stashed in storage with the contents already written on the outside for the next round. back in the same box and onto the next place! the days of pre-labeled boxes has long since passed. thankfully i work in a bookstore that gets deliveries all day, every day, so there will be plenty of boxes pre-labeled as books readily available.

the herd is on the move. is it still a herd when it’s down to just one?

i have a sneaking suspicion that saying good bye is going to be harder than expected, as much as i’m ready to say good riddance.

but. the universe has told me, very clearly, very coldly, it is time.

and so we go.