Pack my things and go

I started the process of moving out yesterday, and it hit me really hard. Harder than I thought it would. I mean, I’ve already been living somewhere else since March. I haven’t seen X since February. (I think I shall affectionately refer to the man who shall not be named as X from here on out.) The only time I’ve seen X’s face was in May when we did a Zoom call, and if you want to hear about how that went, you’ll have to check out my book when it’s ready. Spoiler alert: it was a dumpster fire.

So, here I was, going to my house with the sole purpose of emptying it of anything that made it mine. I realized the minute I walked through the door and was hit with the smell of smoke and some sort of sickening air freshener probably intended to hide the smell of smoke, that even though the house is technically still half mine, even though my name might still be on the paperwork, even though my things were still inside, I’ve already been erased from it. He has moved on. He has changed things around. He’s clearly hosted several parties. He apparently even hosted a wedding there in my absence. During COVID. Hmmph.

As I made my way through the house, I made a mental catalog of all the changes he’d made. He turned the kitchen island around to face the opposite direction from where it had been. He replaced the blue ombre shower curtain I had picked out with a brown one. He rearranged the backyard furniture. He changed brands of dish soap. Why? Dawn is clearly the best! He also shoved my belongings into a hallway closet and the garage.

I thought I’d be strong. I thought I’d be ok. I thought it wouldn’t be all that bad because, hey, he announced that he wanted a divorce back in March, and he started the process in May. I’ve lived with this reality for a while. But, in actuality, it was harder than I thought it would be.

I took a break and sat on the floor of my room, or I guess I should call it my former room, looking out the window into the canyon like I used to do. I used to sit there when I was reading, writing, knitting, thinking, or, honestly sometimes stewing over something he had done. After a while, he’d come sit there too and we’d talk. I spent a lot of time in that spot, and this was to be the last time I’d ever sit there.

Next, I went to the family room and looked at the beat up but cozy couch where we used to watch movies together and have coffee mornings. I sat in the seat that was “mine” one last time. I’d never sit there again. I walked up and down the stairs as memories came at me like rapid fire. Early holiday mornings when I’d come down and see the Christmas tree that he’d lit up before leaving for work, just so I could enjoy it first thing. Or, hearing him coming through the gate at the end of the day and running down the stairs to open the door before he had to take out his keys. I took mental snapshots of the things that I wanted to remember. Then, started packing away my life.

I packed up the little things X had given me as gifts throughout our almost fourteen years together. Things like a stuffed animal he got me when he went on a trip to Guam, a pair of Star Wars socks he bought me on a whim when walking one evening in Coronado, cards, letters, notes etc…I packed the hat I wore on the last day we spent together before he left for that work trip. What would become the last day we’d ever spend together. I packed a funny pillow we bought together several years ago. It was silly, but we used to joke around about who the pillow actually belonged to, based on who wanted it more, liked it more, etc…(please tell me we weren’t the only ones who did quirky things like this). Well, after years of debating and laughing over that pillow, it was in my pile. I guess I’m its rightful owner after all. 

All things considered, I held it together pretty well. That is, until about 3am. I don’t know why, but 3am is when I tend to wake up and deal with some pretty heavy stuff. Maybe it’s because I try so hard to avoid the pain and appear “okay” throughout the day. It’s probably wrong, but I feel like that’s what’s expected of me, what I should do. For myself and for others.

But, 3am doesn’t care if you’re pulled together at all. 3am doesn’t bat an eyelash if your face gets puffy from crying. 3am doesn’t give two winks if you can’t sleep and how that might ruin the day ahead,  and 3am certainly can’t provide any meaningful distraction from the grief. So, at 3am I sat in bed and I cried. Then I read my Bible and I cried some more. 

Today I feel awful. I’ve had no sleep, I have a headache, and I can’t stop replaying stuff over in my mind. Even still, I got up early, had some coffee, read the Bible, and made myself do a workout. Although, truth be told, I did let myself slack off a little…When my online video class did burpees I did my own random dance moves instead. I’m suffering enough that I don’t need burpees in my life, am I right? It was my way of being nice to myself, which kinda feels important when you’re dealing with a loss as catastrophic as a divorce. 

Today doesn’t have a big moral to the story. There’s no profound lesson that I learned, or three steps that freed me from caring about my ex in under three hours. Nope. Today I’m sad, because yesterday was hard. I’m processing my grief, and I’m taking it to God, and that’s all I can do right now.