So I’ve got about three major stressors going on right now, and basically I just kind of want to die, and/or throw up (and then die.)
I’m also having a hell of a time disentangling the stress from each of them to the others. I keep playing the objective-reality/subjective-reality game, but it’s not helping. I don’t want to take an ativan, because I know that it’s okay to be anxious sometimes (although I will if this goes on for a few more days.)
The biggest thing, that’s overshadowing all the rest, and making them far worse than they should be, is realizing that we’re going to move soon. Away from my quiet awesome little town and out into somewhere north in the Bay, probably Oakland or Berkeley.
It’s the right thing to do for about four million reasons — namely, my husband has a kick ass job up there that’s full time, doing what he loves, with awesome people. He gets to be a freaking paladin of law, standing up for the little guy, using his immense brain power to make sure underprivileged people don’t get shafted by big corporations like AT&T. That is amazing. He loves it. The world needs more people like him in it, with intelligence and strong convictions. I love him for being like that, it’s a huge part of the reason we’re together.
But I’ve lived where I’ve lived now since 1998. This place is my home, in all senses of the word. The majority of my good friends are here. I know not to take that for granted — my friends were all I had when I left my ex six years ago — they made sure I had a place to live, people to hang out with, good advice when I started dating again, and food — I could have never gotten away from him, and become the woman I am now, without their support. Our lives were intertwined before that, and over the years, they’ve only become moreso. I love them — not just ‘love’ them, but deep down bone-level love them. They are, in a very real way to me, my family.
And I love this town. I love knowing where to go out to eat, where to park, the people at the coffee shops I frequent recognizing me, my yoga studio, my hair salon, knowing where the best hikes are, the beaches, the sun.
My friends are irreplaceable. And the thought of starting all over — even the little things, like finding a new coffee shop — just feels so stomach-pit-droppingly awful.
If we move we’ll be nearer the rest of our family, on both sides, which will be nice — while I’m not too into babies personally, I do want to be a part of my niece and nephew’s lives, which is hard when we’re so far away from them now. And we’ll be closer to my folks too, and no one is getting any younger — and we’ll be able to afford the kind of place that has a guest bedroom that isn’t also-also an office, which isn’t something I think we’d be able to afford near the beaten path here.
And we’ll be nearer San Francisco, which could be cool. I’m not sure I’m actually cool enough to hang out there, though, heh.
I want to see my husband more. I want to not live in a studio. I want to maybe get a dog. Starting over could be fun. We can still come down and visit people. I’ll always have rooms to stay in if I want to hang out for a few days.
I know it’s the right thing to do. And I know I’ve felt like this before — when I ran away from Texas way back in the day, and when I left my ex — and it’s still been the right thing to do. I just hate the doing of it is all.
Bleh. Thanks for listening.