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janegodzillaOkay!
After another week from hell, things are finally calm enough that I'm not three seconds away from total meltdown at any given moment. We made a big moving run last Sunday, I had my final last Tuesday, we made our second big moving run a week ago, and since then we'd been shuttling things over in my car and cleaning the old place as best we could (without any help from former roommate, I might add -- THANKS FOR THAT, DUDE, YOU ARE THE MOST USELESS PERSON EVER) while trying to get things set up at the new place. We still haven't had a chance to get the baseboards in, but that's okay -- most of the furniture is where we want it, we have internet again, I'm slowly getting the kitchen set up and Nate's getting his garage arranged, and the other night we put up a bunch of artwork. It feels more and more like home every day, and even the missing baseboards aren't stressing me out as badly as they were two weeks ago. Plus, as of today we are officially done with the old house AND the former roommate, and to that I can only say one thing: HUZZAH.
It feels very much like fall right now, which makes me happy. Today the weather reminded me so much of Bellingham that it left me a little stunned. There's just something about this combination of elements, the rain and damp and cold combined with warm, blustery wind that smells of the ocean. Scent and touch seem to be the senses that trigger my memory the hardest, and while walking up to Trauma Conference this morning, that marine-scented wind got me just right and it was like...boom. Eighteen again, a homesick little pseudo-gothlet with purple hair and humongous boots and a Jhonen Vasquez obsession, lugging my books across the bricks of Red Square to buy a mocha before class, Invader Zim lunchbox purse banging against my hip.
And it hit me this morning that it was almost a decade ago that I was that kid, and it made me feel...not nostalgic, exactly -- I wouldn't repeat my teenage years or my early twenties again if you paid me -- but maybe kind of bittersweet. I found myself wishing I could reach back nine years to give myself a hug. I was so sad then. So sad and scared and angry and lonely; my meds weren't working and my prescribing doctor had cut me loose when I turned 18 that summer, and I was afraid the campus health people would call my parents if I told them how much I thought about dying. I was afraid to get close to people. I was afraid of failure. I was afraid of my suitemates, who were loud and boisterous and normal, and who seemed more than a little put-off by my crippling shyness and aura of unhappiness. I was afraid of a lot of things, really, but more than anything I was afraid that this sadness and loneliness and anger was going to define the rest of my short, miserable life. I can still remember what it felt like to be that afraid. Those kinds of memories have sharp edges.
If 27-year-old me went back to 18-year-old me and said, "Look, I know things suck right now and they're going to get a lot worse before they get better, but they WILL get better, I promise," I doubt 18-year-old me would've listened. Actually, 18-year-old me probably would've focused on the "things will get worse" bit and been like, "I KNEW IT, I SHOULD JUST GO DRIVE MY CAR INTO A TREE ALREADY BECAUSE I FAIL AT EVERYTHING," because I was just as dramatic and prone to hyperbole at 18 as I am now. But even though I know I would've been a total snot about it, sometimes I still wish I could reassure my wee self that yes, things will eventually work out. I'm pretty sure 18-year-old me would be all judgmental about the fact that I got a BA in English and not in Psych, but whatever, 18-year-old me. You would make a terrible psychologist.
After another week from hell, things are finally calm enough that I'm not three seconds away from total meltdown at any given moment. We made a big moving run last Sunday, I had my final last Tuesday, we made our second big moving run a week ago, and since then we'd been shuttling things over in my car and cleaning the old place as best we could (without any help from former roommate, I might add -- THANKS FOR THAT, DUDE, YOU ARE THE MOST USELESS PERSON EVER) while trying to get things set up at the new place. We still haven't had a chance to get the baseboards in, but that's okay -- most of the furniture is where we want it, we have internet again, I'm slowly getting the kitchen set up and Nate's getting his garage arranged, and the other night we put up a bunch of artwork. It feels more and more like home every day, and even the missing baseboards aren't stressing me out as badly as they were two weeks ago. Plus, as of today we are officially done with the old house AND the former roommate, and to that I can only say one thing: HUZZAH.
It feels very much like fall right now, which makes me happy. Today the weather reminded me so much of Bellingham that it left me a little stunned. There's just something about this combination of elements, the rain and damp and cold combined with warm, blustery wind that smells of the ocean. Scent and touch seem to be the senses that trigger my memory the hardest, and while walking up to Trauma Conference this morning, that marine-scented wind got me just right and it was like...boom. Eighteen again, a homesick little pseudo-gothlet with purple hair and humongous boots and a Jhonen Vasquez obsession, lugging my books across the bricks of Red Square to buy a mocha before class, Invader Zim lunchbox purse banging against my hip.
And it hit me this morning that it was almost a decade ago that I was that kid, and it made me feel...not nostalgic, exactly -- I wouldn't repeat my teenage years or my early twenties again if you paid me -- but maybe kind of bittersweet. I found myself wishing I could reach back nine years to give myself a hug. I was so sad then. So sad and scared and angry and lonely; my meds weren't working and my prescribing doctor had cut me loose when I turned 18 that summer, and I was afraid the campus health people would call my parents if I told them how much I thought about dying. I was afraid to get close to people. I was afraid of failure. I was afraid of my suitemates, who were loud and boisterous and normal, and who seemed more than a little put-off by my crippling shyness and aura of unhappiness. I was afraid of a lot of things, really, but more than anything I was afraid that this sadness and loneliness and anger was going to define the rest of my short, miserable life. I can still remember what it felt like to be that afraid. Those kinds of memories have sharp edges.
If 27-year-old me went back to 18-year-old me and said, "Look, I know things suck right now and they're going to get a lot worse before they get better, but they WILL get better, I promise," I doubt 18-year-old me would've listened. Actually, 18-year-old me probably would've focused on the "things will get worse" bit and been like, "I KNEW IT, I SHOULD JUST GO DRIVE MY CAR INTO A TREE ALREADY BECAUSE I FAIL AT EVERYTHING," because I was just as dramatic and prone to hyperbole at 18 as I am now. But even though I know I would've been a total snot about it, sometimes I still wish I could reassure my wee self that yes, things will eventually work out. I'm pretty sure 18-year-old me would be all judgmental about the fact that I got a BA in English and not in Psych, but whatever, 18-year-old me. You would make a terrible psychologist.