On living alone and moving house after divorce

I am moving in two weeks. I have 70 flat boxes leaning against the wall in the kitchen. I’ve only packed 10 of them. And I can’t seem to move forward.

The house I’m currently renting was sold, so the move isn’t altogether voluntary. It’s the house I moved to after my divorce. It’s not the house I raised my children in, but it is the house where I declared my independence.

It has not been an easy house to love.

It is old and worn and tends to flood in the winter. My daughter and I came home one day last January to a waterfall from the balcony on the second floor into the basement where 12 inches of water collected.

Everything in the basement was soaked, and I lost a lot of stuff. Photo albums, books, rugs, luggage. Then came the mold last summer when the basement never dried properly.

Then last November, I left to spend the weekend with my man. Someone (or a group of professionals, more likely) broke down the back door and stole all of my jewelry, my laptops, and dumped every drawer in my daughter’s room. Adding insult to injury, they made away with my brand new pillow cases to carry their loot.

There were only a few things that I couldn’t replace. My great aunt’s wedding ring, my son’s mezuzah.

I have learned a lot about loss in this house.

But in this kitchen, I have whipped up many meals at odd hours for hungry children, teenagers, and friends.

I have enjoyed watching the babies grow into school-aged children on this street. And seeing the older children learn how to drive, graduate from high school, and bring home dates. And then, not much later, coming home tired in their uniforms from the army with their huge packs on their backs full of dirty laundry.

It is a nice neighborhood. My neighbors have a Whatsapp group for warnings and good wishes and requests for sugar or a hand in a flood.

There is an amber light that shines through the trees in the park behind the house. It changes throughout the day. When the heat breaks, I can smell the honeysuckle.

I’ve adopted 4 street cats that are endlessly sweet and destructive in and out of the house all day. I can’t take them all with me and I feel guilty.

I have fed and housed many stray people too, over the years.

In this house, my door has always been open(Tweet it!)

It is time to move on to a smaller, more manageable space. My children are mostly gone now and I think that’s the hardest thing about moving. My son is off on a year-long adventure and may never live with me again. His sister pops by to shower and change clothes and raid the pantry. She picked the room with the wall to wall mirrored closet doors in the new place.

The man in my life lives in another city and neither one of us is ready or willing to uproot and move full time. He’ll help me pack, be in charge of hooking up electronics, and help with the emotional and physical heavy lifting, including relocating some of the stray cats he brought me.

So, I guess I need a little more time to adjust to the moving out and moving on. And I may pack nothing today. I will clean out another drawer and fold some laundry and move very slowly, the only pace I can handle.

There is no right way or wrong way to do this. The movers are coming on July 5th, and I will gladly accept the offers of friends to help pack. I am not going to be able to accomplish this on my own and that’s okay. I have learned how to ask for help.

Today I will sit on my couch in my living room and look out the back door through the garden to the trees beyond and watch the light. And try to imagine myself in a new space with less stuff and more peace of mind. And a new chapter.

Now over to you: what was your experience living independently after divorce? I’d love to hear!