Two Days into the Countdown

Tonight I am assailed with doubt again. Feeling like I don't want to leave, feeling like moving is a huge mistake. I am again just barely functioning. I can pack if there's someone there to help me or point me in the right direction, but in general I feel too overwhelmed to do much. Why can't I just move forward and be done with it? Why can't I turn my thoughts toward all the advantages and ignore everything else? Instead I feel on the verge of implosion.

Today my mom helped me pack and as I was trying to express why this move is so hard for me (after all, I have actually lived in this house longer than I have lived anywhere in my entire life -- thanks a lot mom and dad) she began talking about medication and chronic depression and things of that nature, which then made me think, okay, how far out of scale is the way I'm feeling? Isn't it only natural to feel sad and fearful? I tried to explain how important my surroundings are, how critical to my state of mind, and I don't think I made much of an impression. Everyone in my family knows I'm the picky one...I guess they don't understand how deeply that pickiness (read control issues, kids) goes.

Am I crazy? I mean in the treatable sense? Am I chronically depressed? I'm not really sure. It certainly doesn't feel at all like the depression I had after Grant was born. I felt so sad and so full of despair then, like nothing in the world really mattered at all. This is more like a low level panic attack, a kind of thin thread of anxiety running through my every waking moment and through a good chunk of my sleeping moments, too. I think I am anticipating loss (old house) and constant unrelenting work (new house) and that's all my tunnel vision can grasp.

Change is so hard for me. I have never adapted well to change, even as a kid. I think it was just less obvious then because I had so little say in what decisions were made for me. In particular, I never had the right of refusal. Now, as a grown up, I know I sometimes say no just to say it -- I sometimes say no to quite good ideas, just to enjoy the feeling of putting my foot down. Then later I think, what the heck? That would have been okay!

Then, too, grieving is not something I do easily. Emotionally speaking I am fairly private and grief, although I feel it keenly, is the most private of all. And what I am feeling a lot of lately is grief.

D-day in 2 days.

R & R

Went to Kansas City this past weekend because we'd planned a trip there nearly 6 months ago and had non-refundable tickets to the Raiders-Chiefs game. The idea was that the men would go to the game and the women would shop.

As it turned out, some of us shopped, though not as much as we'd liked to have done. The kids swam in the hotel pool Saturday night and we had a splendid dinner at Jack Stack Barbeque (and I am still having indecent thoughts about the crown prime ribs I had...sooo good). Maggie and I survived being separated from each other for 40 hours (she stayed at home with Grandma) and in general, a good time was had by all.

On the face of it, it seems irresponsible to run away for the weekend when we're moving this Friday and I am not even slightly organized or ready, but it felt really good to just not be here; all the stuff that torments me at night and makes me hyperventilate during the day melted into the background and I felt more relaxed than I have for a long, long time.

My sister and I did some painting in the new house on Friday and that felt good, too. Sort of like claiming the space as my own. We have a long way to go, but I feel more like we're going to get there without me needing to be committed.

My task now is to survive the actual move and all the attendant craziness and upheaval. I may never find anything again once we're actually moved -- I've had to chuck stuff in boxes and cram things in willy-nilly just to get the house show-ready, so now I have only a very hazy idea of where a lot of things are. The process will be complete this weekend when it all gets shifted to the new house.

First road trip of the new year will be to the closest IKEA for some storage shelves to corral the toys.

Wendy Whiner

I know I am. I know I am petty, and shallow and worldly and probably very, very sinful into the bargain.

But I hate my new kitchen.

I also hate all the dark, heavy oak trim that's around every door and window in the house. Likewise the heavy dark oak chair rail in the dining room, kitchen and entryway. Also the heavy oak vanities in the bathrooms. And I really hate the white ceramic tile on the floor. Hate it all.

I should be thanking God for the space, thanking God for the reduced price which allows us to live there without going broke. Should be dancing a jig at the thought that I will finally have a closet large enough for all my clothes, on and off season. But I'm not.

I feel like all that I've worked to accomplish here, all the style and grace that it took me so long to infuse this house with is gone in an instant, replaced by a big ugly yurt of a place with absolutely no style at all.

And I know, because I've gone through this before, that I am going to have to fight for every little improvement. And I'm going to have to wage war for the not-so-little improvements. And I am already thinking, how long do I have to live here?

This is not good, when you haven't even moved in yet and you're looking for an escape clause.

Breathe In, Breathe Out

I was so wrong about finality quelling panic. The very finality of the finality induced more panic, but not until 4 a.m., which is when everyone wants to be awake sweating about the massive purchase they've just made and whether or not it was a wise decision.

It's been so long since I've had normal sleep rhythms. I take antihistimines to sleep at night, then drink tons of coffee to wake up in the morning. I either have to drink more coffee to stay awake in the afternoon or succumb to a nap. I am functioning only minimally -- I get the kids dressed and out the door and I am putting meals, however crappy, on the table, and the laundry is done for the week, but that's about it. No cleaning, no packing, no nothing that isn't absolutely critical for our immediate survival. Tim and I have hardly interacted the last month except to distribute child-related tasks or pow-wow about house projects before we take off in opposite directions to do them. I feel exhausted, isolated, mildly crazy and overwhelmed.

This morning at 4, I was lying on the couch downstairs and thinking, endlessly, about how I only have 2 more weeks before this isn't my house anymore -- not really, anyway. Oh sure, I'll still be paying for it but I won't have it wrapped around me like a giant security blanket. Everything about the new house is distorted in my mind, looming out of all proportion.

I have trouble eating, I am not sleeping well at all and I am not really enjoying the things I normally enjoy. Like eating and sleeping. I can't live like this much longer. Tim says that I have to just tell myself that I can't live like this and then STOP. Very handy if there's a little switch marked "FREAK OUT" that I can just turn on and off. I have to think, though, that my body will eventually give it up, that it will finally say "Oh...is this all? This isn't enough to get worked up about" and then I'll be able to roll over and go back to sleep at night.

Maybe, and I say this with as much hope as trepidation, maybe the anticipation is worse than the event. This is often the case with me, getting all het up about something that turns out to be much less heinous than it seemed in my imagination. I am hoping this falls under the same category. I guess I'll know in 2 weeks.

Welcome to Fiscal Irresponsibility

It's done. We now officially own 2 houses. Technically, Tim and I could begin living separately if we so chose. Sadly, it's not legal for us to leave the kids at one house while we go have a nice long soak in the tub at the other house.

Because that is wrong.

Last night I had what I hope will be my last meltdown. Now that it's a done deal, I am hoping my brain will recognize the essential futility of panicking over whether it's the right thing to do. Now I can panic about things like double mortgage payments and dual utilities.

You know, normal stuff.

After we signed the 42,000 sheets of paper that constitute our new loan agreement, our mortgage guy, Brad, said to us "I hope your new house is all that this house was for you and more." A nicer sentiment he couldn't have offered. What a mensch.

And this is what I want for us...that all we've felt about this house, the warmth and security, the layers of tradition and routine that define homelife, the glow of memory, that all of that will be ours in spades as we take this show on the road. And that, of course, makes it sound like we're moving 2,000 miles away, when in fact it's slightly less than 3 miles from our current home.

Do I tend to get worked up over nothing? You betcha.

Coming to Terms...

with the fact that this is going to be the Fall That Wasn't. We worked so hard to keep the yard leaf-free for showings, there wasn't time to play in the leaf piles. We worked so hard cleaning and taking stuff out of the house so it would show better that there wasn't time to go to the pumpkin farm. We have now pushed the move date back by 2 weeks so we can clean and paint at the new house, so Thanksgiving is really just going to be a blip in the endless continuum of home improvement work. We move the first weekend in December and will spend most of the month unpacking and figuring out what to do with stuff, so Christmas is looking like it's going to be a casualty as well.

I don't know how I'm going to complete any holiday shopping for nieces and nephews. This might be the year of the gift card....

All this is making me feel discombobulated -- just off kilter, like the whole universe has developed a nervous tic and I'm the only one who's noticed it.

Anatomy of a Panic Attack

First, your brain will not shut off. Thoughts swirl around in a miasma of negativity. Some of them are recriminatory, some are laced with fear, others are like endless lists of what ifs which always culminate in disaster.

Second, you feel like you can't breathe properly. Air is going in and out, but too quickly, while (paradoxically) you feel starved for oxygen. This is called hyperventhilating and it is about as fun as it sounds.

Third, the tiny part of your brain that is rational keeps chipping in with soothing, calming thoughts designed to stem the overwhelming sense of impending doom. These thoughts are largely ineffective, like shouting at a thunderstorm.

Fourth, you are seized with a frenetic energy. You must move; run, pace, wring your hands continually, whatever. Sitting still is not an option. Although you may be physically exhausted, this in no way mitigates the need to expend that energy. I find it is best to follow the "flight" impulse until it burns itself out.

Fifth, your husband, completely unable to help you with this, suggests you seek professional help.

Welcome to My Crazy, Part Deux

Final walk through on the new house tonight and it was miserably depressing. Came home and promptly had another massive panic attack.

What happened was this: we killed ourselves for 2 days cleaning and painting and otherwise spiffing this house up so we could hold an open house before we move next weekend. Very much work, very little sleep. Spent afternoon at the inlaws which wasn't bad, precisely, just a gross inhibition to sleeping, which was mainly what I wanted to do after two straight days of backbreaking work. Went to do the walk through and found that the new house, now empty, looked much shabbier, dirtier and generally unappealing than we remembered. Carpets were stained and walls were gouged and the whole place was vilely dusty and grimy. Without furniture to distract us, the cabinets seemed more worn and dated and it was obvious that the whole interior of the house needs to be painted. After weeks of working on this house, I went to the new house and was confronted by MORE WORK.

Small wonder, I guess, that I lost it for a bit.

That, married to my exhaustion and coupled with PMS, a case of pinkeye and a back that went out on Thursday, have left me feeling very very very low. But let me just whinge on a bit more about my big new house and how awful it is. What a twonk I am.

One tiny bright spot: a group of kids from the neighborhood saw the lights on and came over to meet us and find out if we had any kids. There was a little girl Abby Kate's age and a couple boys Grant's age. They were very friendly and seemed nice.

I am trying hard to remember that this move is not all about me.

Marry Someone Who Makes You Laugh

I am under the sink, rummaging for AA batteries to restore the dead TV remote so that Tim can work out and channel surf at the same time when he says this:

"You are so good to me. I don't know why; ninety percent of the time I'm throwing poo at you like a bad monkey."


Love love love that bad monkey.