I haven’t written a lot lately because everything I do is emotionally fraught and disturbing and seems poised to lead to buckets of tears because I apparently cry at everything now: episodes of Wings, Iron Man III, people not texting me back…seriously, anything. I know, on the slightly rational side of my brain, that much of this has to do with my impending move and the sense of epic-ness that it adds to every song I hear on the radio and every show I see on TV; but more than that, I think it’s still antidepressant withdrawal. Or I’m just back to my pre-medicated level crazy. (Uh-oh. Please, dear lord, don't make me like I was when I was 16 again! It wouldn't be right or fair or decent!) Either way it’s exhausting. And it makes me want to cry more.
Last week (oh shit, actually it’s been two weeks now), I went surfing. And I went when I was in the death throes of antidepressant withdrawal. And it was the best thing ever. Gabe and Em had gotten me stand-up paddle-surfing lessons and I was nervous and excited to give them a try. I won’t bother you with the details, but they ended up just being regular surfing lessons. But that’s okay because it was great. And I think it was just what I needed to jump-start my brain from the hideous funk I’d been in for a week. Hanging out in the ocean and constantly working at getting up on the board and getting sun on my face and water up my nose and sand everywhere felt really great. And the dolphins swimming around the area (I’m told they’re very social and love people) made it even better. And even just sitting on the beach and watching the water felt good and therapeutic and right. It was wonderful and a much needed distraction from the “must do” list…which is far too long at this point and gives me minor strokes when I think about it.
|How I pictured myself as a surfer.|
|Closer to reality.|
Brief aside: it was clear that I wasn’t in my right headspace that day because I didn’t even think about Shiders ONCE.
But in the very fast two weeks since that day, I’ve been overwhelmed with the amount of things I have to do before the movers arrive May 30th. I’ve been packing, on average, a box a day, and yet my cup still runneth over. This place is ridiculous. When did I accumulate so much crap? I’d like to sort the things into boxes in a way that makes some kind of sense. You know: kitchen, office, bedroom, etc…But there’s so much of it I feel like I’m drowning in piles of garbage. Precious, precious garbage. You can often find things as diverse as a sewing machine, a throw pillow, three pens, two forks, one sock and a coffee table book in a single box at my house. Nothing makes sense. Everything seems at once incredibly important and easily disposable at the same time. I’ve taken bags and bags to Out of the Closet and LA Shares, the electronic recycle and the street corner and still the things keep coming. It’s kind of humiliating in a way. And it makes me want to cry. Again. And more. And maybe one last time for the cheap seats in the back.
|A sample of how I pack to move across the country (half-way).|
For instance, today I was cleaning out my dresser and held a t-shirt in my hand for three minutes. My college roommate, Lindsey, gave it to me. It has a picture of a bird of some type (a crane?) in front of a sunset and it says, “Nebraska: Big Cock Country.” After thinking really hard on it, I decided to keep it. But into the give-away pile went an equally amazing t-shirt from a dear friend who shall remain nameless (lest I make that friend as sad as I am). And I’m still agonizing over it. I may even cry over it, if I get the time later.(Oh wait, I forgot: apparently there is always time to cry.)
That’s my problem: I’m too sentimental. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings by no longer keeping a gift they gave me 12 years ago. Even if I never use the gift, part of me dies seeing it in a garbage bag on its way to the charity store. That’s why I’m a hoarder. I love things too much.
In a perfect world, I would be less lazy, less sentimental and more driven. I would take these clothes, tchotchkes, unused kitchen shit, and piles of outdated electronics to Out of the Closet tomorrow and then go surfing again and try to re-center my chi and spend some more time with the dolphins. (The dudes at the beach are very in touch with their chi's...not so in touch with the proper use of the English language. When my friend Rebecca pointed out the fire smoke, our surfing instructor asked if it was "arsenal." Sigh. You can't be beautiful and brilliant, it would seem. At least not with all that water in your ears.)
But the likelier scenario is that I’ll keep drinking cupfuls of chicken broth (that's my new thing...sodium, anyone?) and watching old musicals while I weep and stuff 13 years of accumulated crap into boxes upon boxes upon boxes. (I know. Nice attitude.)
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I hate moving. Moving sucks and it can blow me. (Don’t think those were my exact words before, but that was definitely the feeling behind them.)
*This is from Dry by Augusten Burroughs.