As I’m packing my things up, I think about the amount of times I’ve moved. A rough estimate, including moving out of my parents place, is fifteen times. There is something about packing up my belongings, I inevitably end up finding photographs of exes, bringing with them memories of when the picture was taken. Or uncovering old CDs of music that was at one point so important. Props from old films I made, making me wonder who was the person that wanted so desperately to make that movie. I had something to say back then. I used to work under the assumption that I might have to move at a moment’s notice. Within ten minutes, I could pack everything and fit it all in a cab before whatever was happening happened. As I get older, I’m accumulating more stuff. Chairs I never sit in, dining room tables I never eat at, a big bed all for one person.
No relationship of mine has ever gotten far enough where we decided to live together. I’m wondering if it’s too late for me. In the past, I had roommates, but for the last few years, I’ve been on my own. Most of the time, it’s fine with me. Most of the time. One of my exes lived down the street from me and although we were pretty much at one of our places together, the option existed to go home, if something went down.
I’ve actually thought about this often and how I thought it was the best possible setup. However, on examining a little closer, I feel it was just my usual ability to create an escape route for me. I tend to do this, that way, when things get challenging or get difficult, I have an out. Even if there was nothing wrong with the relationship at the time, the concept of always having an escape route is hardly a healthy way to live.
And then after living on my own a bit longer, my obsessiveness became even more apparent. I like my place exactly the way I want it, so when someone comes in with their own needs, and you know, moves chairs to sit or leaves the toilet seat up, I internally resent them for not understanding that everything is in its right place and should be returned if moved.
And so, after another relationship ended, I decided to re-evaluate this once again. Perhaps I should relax a little bit, need to recognize that if I welcome another person into my life and my house, they bring with them a certain set of needs. They are another person, after all, an individual that needs my focus and attention instead of it being on the stupid things I’m going to eventually pack up anyway.
So, I’m sitting here amongst my things, these things that have been in my possession across several relationships. My focus on these objects that mean very little to me anymore, they are still here while the people have gone. The other day I was having a terrible time. Large things were happening, or not happening, you know, big life stuff. Driving around trying to make things work out, talking to myself in the car, going over things, where I’d gone wrong, what I needed to do to make it right and at some point, I caught myself in the rearview mirror and realized how crazy I must’ve looked and that it’s moments like this one where I wished I had someone sitting beside me. A person to talk to instead of mumbling to myself. Someone that I could support when they needed it and to support me, someone to share my home with, who would mess it all up and I wouldn’t care, and maybe even someone where we would be helping each other pack up our stuff.
But then I get through all the work I had to do on my own. And a little more everyday I wonder if I do need someone else, which is a dangerous mindset because the more I think it, the more it might become a reality. After that day of big life stuff, I parked my car, and inexplicably, wondered if someone was waiting for me at home. I opened the door and it was dark. Maybe they were playing a trick on me. I flicked the lights on and it was just me and my stuff.