I did it.
I am moved. Sort of.
I’ve officially moved out of my 1000 square foot apartment with garage, and I am officially living in a 10×13′ bedroom with a very small closet. It’s in a large house. And I have really amazing housemates. But it’s just so different.
I took many things to the Salvation Army yesterday, and yet I’ve still managed to completely take over a large portion of my new home’s garage, spilling over into the living room, the hallway, the guest room; and yet my room remains an explosion of hangers and bedding and mismatched furniture pieces that don’t accomplish any of my needs. My clothes are disorganized; I don’t know where anything is. Nothing fits the way I’m accustomed to. I don’t even have sheets on my bed.
For five years, everything had a place. The same place. And now I need to find new places. I’ve already started another box of items to donate. I realize now I brought way too many hangers. I have so many things in my life that I still can’t let go of. I desperately need to rethink their roles in my life. Is it reasonable to hang onto something out of pure sentimentality? Where do I draw the line? How do I determine what to do with something that’s value is based on factors other than utility? I carry around with me furniture that my dad made when I was a child. I feel as if it would be a mortal sin to dispose of it. As the only child, I feel immense obligation to never abandon these things.
And so today, my first day officially occupying a room, instead of my apartment, I struggle with these feelings of familial obligation, feelings that I wonder what part of my brain continues to impose on me, and the constant wonder if I would ever forgive myself from moving on from these things.
Perhaps time will tell. Things always seem to have a way of working themselves out, if only I’d allow myself to be calm and allow things to fall into place.