My house feels empty. Empty, and quiet. I have never been inclined to keep empty, quiet spaces; yet, here I am, shedding these last bits of my Missouri life by cleaning, packing, and donating.
It’s a little weird. Not bad-weird. Just weird. I’m finding things I thought I lost ages ago, and throwing away things I thought I would always keep.
(I have slight hoarder tendencies. I am also not a very tidy person. Untidy packrats like myself totally suck at moving.)
As I tape up boxes and silently curse myself for owning so much stuff, I find that I am less preoccupied with what I once thought were necessities for moving: finding the perfect job; being totally financially independent; and finding a city I could live in forever.
When people find out that I am moving to Atlanta, the conversation tends to go like this:
Person: Oooh, do you have a job?
Me: Um. Not yet.
Person: So why Atlanta?
Me: Well, my boyfriend lives there, so I’m moving in with him.
Person (suddenly wide-eyed and understanding): OOOOOOOOOOOOH. Well, at least you will have someone taking care of you!
Which, of course, was my plan all along: make some dude fall in love with me, tell him I will move in with him, and act like I am looking for a job while he pays for all of my stuff, because I got rid of all of my other stuff before I moved.
(I’m joking. In case that wasn’t obvious. Yes, a boy really wants to live with me and deal with my stupid sense of humor.)
While I do want to find a job I enjoy, it no longer feels like a requirement. Feeling independent doesn’t, either. And neither does feeling 100% in love with Atlanta, because I am in love with the person in Atlanta.
All of the things that I thought I needed are just that: things.
And things can be packed up in boxes, and they can be lost, and they can be found four years later and donated to Goodwill.
Things change, whether I want them to or not.
There are times when I feel like I am not enough: not smart enough, not successful enough, not pretty enough.
There are also times when I feel like I am too much: too weird, too anxious, too emotional, too annoying to deal with on any given day.
As you can imagine, this place of pressure and self-doubt is where so much of my anxiety has made its home. And this is how I make things more important than they really are. I will not miss that dress I haven’t worn in five years, and I will not miss a hypothetical life dominated by career and money.
Instead, I get to keep the things that matter, like spending time with my best friends and family during Christmas, and going on adventures in Atlanta with my boyfriend. I get to keep books and my childhood toys and feel the weight of must-haves and must-dos fall off my shoulders.
I don’t think I’ll need much else.