Last week, I finally moved. I’m only about 1.2 miles due north of the last place I lived. I’m down to five boxes or six boxes left to unpack. I have had tremendous help both paid and unpaid. I am bruised and scraped and haven’t really slept well in my new place yet.
The house I raised my kids in was sold six years ago. The house I lived in after my divorce was a good place for teenagers to hang out.
But this place is mostly just for me and that feels strange.
The computer is working. The cable is working. The internet is working. And I’ve done it all myself.
Moving is hard work both mentally and physically. I like the new space. I see green out every window and my stuff seems to fit okay in this new house. But it doesn’t feel like home yet. It’s the first place I’ve lived in 20 years in which my kids’ requirements were not the first thing I considered.
Speaking of kids. My son is about 12 days post-surgery. He has a plate in his clavicle and can’t raise his arm yet. His pain level is tolerable and the baby skin that peeks out from his still-healing abrasions makes me wince inside. He is flying back to Africa tomorrow to finish the second half of his one-year contract there. I have mixed feelings about his return.
Nights are longer here. It might be the heat and humidity. It could be the noise from an unfamiliar air conditioner. The bumps and bangs and barks in the night. Not being able to find my way around in the dark. The one cat I wrangled to the new place likes to cuddle or walk on my chest at all hours. He weighs 20 pounds.
On the stress of transition
I am feeling the stress of transition and can’t remember the code to the front door of the apartment building so I walk around the back.
The neighbors are an interesting group. Young families and a lot of older folks. I have had several visits from people telling me what I should and shouldn’t be doing with the garbage, fire door, elevator. And someone keeps rolling up my welcome mat and throwing i in the corner. Change is hard.
The kitchen works except for the cooktop that an electrician needs to install. I know my new address by heart as I have been doing a little more take out than usual and that’s kind of fun. The washing machine walks on the slick tile and it’s hard to get the door open. I called the plumber too.
The few pieces of art I have will be put up this week when my daughter comes home. And I keep reminding myself that transitions take time. Change can be painful and scary. I read on Facebook this week (thanks B) that the key to happiness is low expectations. I laughed and realized the only one putting pressure on me to have everything done and perfect is me.
It takes time to make a home. And when you live alone, even longer to feel that you’ve done it right.(Tweet it!)
Now over to you: Have you moved houses since your divorce or did you stay put? How do you think that has impacted your post-divorce journey?
1 Comment
I salute your courage..however faltering it may feel right now. Invite people over…once you set your own table with your favorite dishes…even if you order takeout…you will feel more at home. One divorced friend made a fancy lunch…peach daqueries and stuffed tomatoes…amazing warm bread with lots of butter…it was a treat for all of us…made us believe she was doing great..but more important made her feel she was on top of her new life. I am 10 years divorced and with a second husband still living in the apt. I own half of. I dream of moving, downsizing, selling. My ex is still attached to my life with his wife..we pay him half rent…complicated and feels like unfinished business. I wish you only happy days ahead!
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