This morning, the birds are noisy with their chatter, mostly finches and sparrows but I can also hear a Cardinal in the distance. The morning air drifting into my apartment is cool, a nice contrast to the hot coffee I sip. I try to quiet my mind, something that feels an impossible feat. Even concentrating enough on this blog post is a struggle.
As I laid in bed in the early hours of this morning, I tried to remember what things were like when my ex-husband and I moved into our first apartment together in college. I still can't remember what the interactions between him and I were like but a memory I had forgotten resurfaced.
It was the middle of the night Halloween. We had been living together for a couple months only. We were asleep when I was awoken by a sound outside. The stairs going up to our entrance weren't stable so they made a noise when anyone stepped on them. I looked out the window and there was someone who appeared to be passed out on those steps.
I'm sure I woke up my ex-husband, then fiancé. The bed was tucked into the wall such that I would have had to climb over him to get out of it to a window with a view of the steps. But it was on me to figure out what to do. Being the middle of the night and our yard being fairly poorly lit, I wasn't comfortable going out to check on this person but I also couldn't just leave them there. So I called the police who sent an officer out to check on what turned out to be a young woman.
For a man who in the end accused me of not needing him as if that hurt his fragile masculinity, he wasn't very good at making himself useful going all the way back to the beginning. Through his lack of presence, he essentially trained me to handle everything on my own and then accused me of being too independent and too strong.
There is this larger conversation going on now about how men want to be seen as protectors but when moments arise for them to actually protect, they step back and let women handle it, just like in this story of the middle of the night visitor to our first apartment.
Anyway, it is almost time to head to work. Each day that passes I struggle a bit more to feel hopeful about getting news on the Atlanta job. I'm tired of the wait. I feel stuck in limbo. I watch apartments I like come open and then get snatched up. I'm anxious to move on to a new clean chapter.
This week has the added chaos of painters on our floor painting all of our offices. They started with the top floors a few weeks ago and arrived on our floor yesterday afternoon. I haven't started taking things down from my walls and packing up my personal stuff. I think I'm the last to do so. There has been a frenzy as I have watched colleagues start their packing weeks ago. I just can't bring myself to do it and so I keep saying, "there's always tomorrow" except I am running out of tomorrows.
I think I'm torn on what to do with my stuff. Do I feel hopeful and pack it all away carefully taking down the nails with the intent to not unpack it again until I'm in a new city and new office? Or do I just throw it in a box leaving the nails on the wall (they said we could) with plans to hang it all up again when the painters are done, even if it is just for a short time? And is now a good time, to go through it all and get rid of the stuff I don't need or want anymore?
I guess I feel a bit paralyzed. And I'm dreading the days I have to just take my laptop and squat somewhere for a few days when they get to my office, trying to analyze spreadsheets with a quarter million lines of data or more on a single, teeny tiny laptop screen with no mouse or keyboard.
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