I'm pretty sure I'm sicker than I was in Toronto, where I was pretty delirious, then got better and apparently yesterday my body decided it despises me and moving and just stopped working. I had fun in Central Park watching my cousins scamper up giant rocks but by the time I came home, I had to buy a box of tissues that were already gone today. That's the state of my body right now as I face the usual work deadlines and getting ready to go to Kansas City for the RT Convention. So I'm just taking Mucinex and DayQuil and NyQuil and will likely buy a few more meds to make myself feel like I'm trying to help, and tell myself that in 23 days it will be over, and this New York life and dust and moving hell will be behind me and even though I still don't think I quite deserve it, I get this chance to start over.
I realized last night and this morning in my feverish haze that New Jersey and our new apartment is where I want to be when I knew that I just wanted to sink into a bath and have my boyfriend tuck me in and take care of me. He's good at that. Usually I'm pretty stoic but lately I've been softening a bit, trying to not be quite so stubborn. I still am, a little; I scoffed at his suggestion I go to a doctor tomorrow because that seems to require a level of energy I just don't have on top of everything else I have to do. Maybe moving making me sick is a way of making me be totally ready to leave what's been my home for 13 years and two months. If I could move tomorrow, I would, but I can deal with 23 days, especially considering I need every single one. We are not getting married, unless, you know, hell freezes over or something, but I do believe in "in sickness or in health," and that goes both ways. I want us to take care of each other and help us build new lives that we couldn't have done on our own. And yes, that is scary as fuck because what if it falls apart? Where will I go? What will I do? I don't know, but I know that it's better to take that risk than stay with the status quo just for the sake of familiarity. Look where that's gotten me. Ha.
I think the weirdest part is how lonely this time is, the ripping up papers and bundling magazines and hauling books and dismantling bookcases and tripping over things and wanting to set fire to it all in my lowest moments. It's hard work, and even the joys of discovering a stray memory or forgotten book or old photo are mitigated by the sheer enormity of the task. It will be jarring to go from this time to living with someone, especially since I haven't had a roommate in 7 years and have never lived with a partner. So I think this time of dust and coughing and stress is a reminder that I'm doing the right thing, that by some grace of who knows who, I am getting this chance, one I clearly never could have done on my own. That is tough for me to accept--that alone, I would probably live forever amidst the dust and the clutter--but again, I'm trying to soften, to be more open, less brusque and stubborn. I hate being needy, but, whether I hate it or not, I am. So, 23 days. I am counting them, because what's on the other side is so different from what I've come to accept, from this lowest common denominator life. I have no idea, exactly, what that new life will be like, only that it has to be better.