The Great Move

Yesterday someone told me how great my life is, and why doesn't everyone move here. My response was that I was showing them the good, because no one visiting wants to see the crap. 

But this week has been hard. Like insanely hard. And I hate writing and sharing the crap, but I think I should. 

I remember sitting on the floor of y apartment when I moved to Boston. Almost every night, I sat in silence in darkness, sobbing as my heart wretched in the clutching pain of loneliness. Deep guttural pain of hollowness as I felt the lowest of my life. 

And so I haven't cried once in my housing here. It seems off limits. I'm not the heartbroken person I was in Boston. I'm an excited adventurer in Europe. 

And so I do my crying in church. Multiple weeks now, the calming words of the worship songs have unleashed a torrent of public tears. Which has been healing and hard. 

I moved this weekend. Nothing like I imagined it would look like. Yes, I don't take for granted the support of a corporate move. But still. It was 130AM as I struggled to pull the sheets over my bed. I still can't find any plates, much less the counter top. I'm my mother's daughter,  and hefted furniture between rooms and back again as I sort out the perfect arrangement. I teetered on the step ladder as I hung my heavy Indian outfits. 

I've stood in many friends' kitchens, unpacking and arranging their dishes. And yet- there is no one helping me. I've made many dinners for moving friend's, so they wouldn't have to worry about a hot meal after a long day of moving. And yet I sat nibbling on fiery Cheetos, wishing for a meal delivered to me. 

I emotionally stress eat. I always have. But when I'm depressed, I don't eat at all. The first long stint was right after i relapsed, when I didn't eat for 2 some weeks. And many times in Boston I couldn't summon the energy for eating. 

And yesterday my pump went off more than 6 times as my sugars approached the low alert level. Finally, I thought through my day's food. Breakfast sandwich with my cousin,  followed by a coffee, Madeline, and sliver of cake. Another drink with the cousin accompanied by a few olives and cashews. And the infernal cheetos so I could take my antibiotics and ibuprofen for my tooth extraction. This morning, a few bites of leftover orange cake and a gulp of juice accomplished the same medication purposes. Walking to church, I felt the pangs of hunger, which were satiated by a bite of waffle and cup of scalding church coffee. The following day I actually only ended up eating a handful of Cheetos washed down with a bit of juice. 

Some days are hard. My goal yesterday was to unpack all my clothing/bedroom, and I'm proud to say I did. But then I walk into the hall, overflowing with glass things as I figure out my kitchen. 

I've learned the walls and ceilings are paper thin. The creaks of others entering and exiting and the water from their sinks startled me awake a few times. I can't even play Spotify to fall asleep like I did in Boston. I don't have internet yet, and tomorrow is a public holiday. My work phone has Whatsapp and Google, but past that I have no contact with the outside world. When the isolation becomes overwhelming,  I'll hotspot my personal phone for 5 min at a time. Just enough to see the snaps and IG messages and FB messenger and feel like I'm not completely alone. And then I turn it off, plunged back into the deafening silence. 

Morning wake up is different. Typically there is the excitement of seeing what the Americans messaged me while I was asleep, but now my phone is literally a brick. It seems almost irrelevant to charge it at night. 

Yesterday I missed a bus, but was happy as I connected to the City WiFi  for 10 glorious minutes. 

Doing a cross country move alone is hard. No one to help manage the bags, the movers, the logistics. I couldn't open the door the first day, and wanted to sink to the floor in desperation. A call to the realtor helped me finally open the infernal door, but I felt so helpless in the moment. I cleared out my final things and had a few bags of frozen goods I moved to my apartment. I gave up on the public transit, and sprung for a taxi, but I felt so defeated as I tried to navigate a rolling suitcase, backpack, full handbag and 2 giant grocery bags through the torrential rains into the sopping trunk of the taxi. And summoned all my courage to counter the taxi driver when he tried to drop me off close to the apartment,  but not directly in front of my place. Bless the old man neighbor who graciously held the front door open, and opened the elevator door for me to go up to my place. 

I could use a hug. And a shoulder to lean on. And a hot meal. And a friendly face. Thankfully the pastor is preaching in his good ol Midwest English, taking care of my need not to strain to understand the English or think of the French reply. 

So yeah... weekends in Rome, work trips to Paris, it all comes at a cost. 

The weekend with my parents was lovely. But also stressful as always. And also a painful reminder of my singleness, as every party we interacted with asked about marriage. It gets old. I know many people categorized me as a high falutin career woman when I moved to Boston,  but I wanted nothing more than a family. The same holds true here, though I go with way more support from my Boston friends than I did my Cleveland friends. I love my job, but it is not my sole reason for living. But we keep on keeping on. Steadfastly holding strong.