What I’m doing and it’s getting pretty obvious.
Let me explain. That would probably help, right?
Or maybe I should flex my description skills. It is one of the areas I lack, or need more practice with. The Lazy Writer, remember?
Bare bones edition: I am trying to figure out how to pack up a 3 bedroom home that my father lived in for 20+ years and the Princeling & I have lived in for 14 years and move away from the area I’ve lived for 20-ish years.
Possibly the state I’ve called home my entire life.
Probably.
More than likely.
Now, let’s add to the stress of our hapless heroine. The last time time she moved it was in a hurry-+ clothes and toys shoved into trash bags filling up the trunks of 2 cars. She was able to go back later and grab a few precious items, but not all.
Now, of course, everything is precious. And not just to her. It isn’t just move, trash, yard sale piles. There’s also FAMILY pile, stuff the family might want. The problem is, well, family.
Sometimes it feels as if–+ well, I put it this way. If I let everyone have the things they asked for there would be nothing left. Not a stick, not a stone. Not even the stuff that belongs to me & my son.
I just threw some stuff in the trash. It unfroze me for a minute. But there’s also a fear of… What if someone asks for it? Let’s be clear: this stuff wouldn’t be sold in a yard sale and belonged in the trash. My insides twist and turn, knot and release.
And the creative ideas are popping like bananas but I have energy and/or ability to function in the single digits. I’m scared. I’m frozen. I haven’t had a chance to breathe because hits just keep coming and yea, I still need to grieve as well.
I started writing prose poetry to work on my feelings. It’s working. I’m getting out the vitriol and it’s helping me heal and remember family is family and I do love them. They love me too, it’s just other things getting in the way.
It’s supposed to be 108 today. I’m not going to be doing much out in the garage until much later. I got started…. And that’s half the battle.
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