#patch babbles

07/26/2017

I began my move-out process yesterday after I got out from work. I had help from my wonderful brother, Dustin, and my dear friend, Ang. I didn’t have as much packed for the apartment as I had planned (most of the boxes are marked for storage), but we managed to get some big things over there.

Of course, as I said to Ang when she arrived, these things can never just go smoothly. The Ikea dresser I have is long and tall, and not conducive to maneuvering around tight corners. Unfortunately, I was not aware that it was built IN the bedroom, so I didn’t realize there was no possible way to get it down the twisting, slant-ceiling stairs to the first floor (there were a lot of banged elbows and pinched fingers before Dustin and I came to this conclusion).

We wound up having to lower the dresser out the sliding glass door-to-nowhere down to the deck. It was a tense few moments, as if the dresser happened to slip while being lowered and swing freely, it could very well smash into a second glass door just below the first. Thankfully, between Dustin, Ang, and I, we were able to get it down without incident, but my heart was in my throat the whole time.

The second unfortunate event occurred soon after. We’d just loaded the dresser into a truck and came back inside to get some of my boxed-up things, when I realized my office door was open. The office where my cat, Sophie, had been confined to keep her from escaping into the wilds of which she is not in any way familiar or prepared for.

Queue breath-robbing panic.

Thankfully, Dustin has hawk-like eyesight and was able to spot her roaming the edge of the property line, just about to enter the forest beyond. I grabbed a bag of cat treats and called out to her. For one brief moment I thought she was going to make a break for the woods, never to be seen again. Instead, she ran right for home, and I was able to trap her inside once more. (Seriously considering getting her an orange kitty-convict collar  after this escape attempt).

With Sophie secured once more and most of my possessions loaded up, I led a caravan of vehicles to my new apartment building. Moving everything inside was surprisingly easy and went without incident. My mother arrived just as we did, so we had an extra pair of hands that helped to speed things up. We were able to put my bed frame together in relatively short order, and I was pleased to find that my mental Tetris for how I plan to put the room together will actually work out.

Tired and hungry, we opted to go out to dinner. I went to lock up for the night, only to realize two important things:

1. I had left my keys inside the apartment. 2. The doors to this particular apartment complex lock automatically behind you.

You can guess where this is going.

Fortunately, I still had the truck key in my pocket, but the apartment keys, my house key, and my car key were all on that ring. My Ex was gone for the evening and would not be returning anytime soon to let me back into the house, and I’m still not technically a resident of the apartment yet--five more days!--so I could not call for help. On top of it all, my new roommate was in the middle of job-training a whole state away for the rest of the week, so I couldn’t ask him to let me in. 

This was a really bad time to discover just how crappy my cell phone service is in this particular area.

For the next two hours, I attempted to text and call various individuals to try and work out a solution, all while trying to enjoy dinner with my brother, his girlfriend (who I was basically meeting for the first time), and Ang. I asked my Ex when he’d be coming home and I tried to get a spare key to the house from a friend, but didn’t receive much in the way of replies.

Slow service at the restaurant caused us to get out around 10:30pm, and I was finally able to find an area where I had a few bars of reception. I got in touch with my friend, and went to her apartment to get a key so I could go back to the house and pass out. There was just one problem: the key she had was an old one from before we switched the locks on the house. The Ex was also not answering his phone as he was ALSO in a black hole of cell phone service.

Helpful, right?

As I stood in my friend’s living room, trying to make my tired monkey brain come up with a new plan that was better than sleeping in the truck until the Ex came home, my friend, Angel, lived up to his name and came to my rescue. Being the previous roommate whose place I’m taking, he suggested that since he’s still on the lease, he could call Maintenance and claim he locked himself out, and I could solve all of my problems by just getting my keys back.

Genius!

It took another half-hour, but finally, I had my keys back and was able to return to the house. I’m very glad I took Angel up on his offer, as the Ex did not get back until well after I’d gone to bed (which wasn’t until around midnight, sob).

I’m a little crispy today, but given my Series of Unfortunate (Moving) Events, I think I did alright. I still have more to pack and move, at least now I don’t have to wait until Jake comes back from Maine to do so.

In case some of you were wondering what’s been going on in my life, lately: 

Today, I filed for divorce.

We’d only been married two years, and had been in a relationship for a total of seven. I moved in with him about four years ago. We were good partners; we talked all the time, we shared our goals and dreams as often as we discussed our worries and problems. We had similar values, and were happy to apply them to thoughts for the future.  

He supported me when I went through Nursing school, only to eventually find the strain of the coursework and the responsibility of human life too much to bear. He stood by me while I figured out my next move, while I attempted to work from home as a freelance writer, and encouraged me to keep working on my own novel. He even survived the depression that followed when the writing thing wasn’t as successful as I had hoped.  

A part of me will always love him for that.

Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, we stopped talking. We stopped making time for each other. Our shared interests began to diverge. He found a new passion for LARPing and singing. I continued to enjoy my video games, my TV shows, and of course, my writing. We stopped connecting.

My sin is that I didn’t really notice the danger. Depression robbed me of my sense of failed connection. We’d have talks now and again about how we needed to make a greater effort to do things together, but we wouldn’t follow through. None of the suggested plans were carried out. We let things drift.

I was content, still. I’d just started a new job, I was getting out of the house again, meeting new people, exploring a new career path. I was starting to wake up, but it was too little, too late. We had a bad week, followed by a really bad week, and in less than a month, it was over.

“The romantic feelings are gone,” he confessed on a Wednesday afternoon, after I’d just come home from work. It was June 14th, just six days before our second wedding anniversary. It wasn’t how I imagined our story would end, nor how I thought a divorce might happen. He wasn’t seeing someone else, neither of us were on drugs or drinking too much, both of us were decent with our money and spending habits, no gambling monkey on either back--nothing scandalous. We hadn’t even been arguing much leading up to the bad weeks. There was no big bang, no explosion. Only a whimper.

Part of me was relieved. I had been a wreck through the last half of May and the first few weeks of June, leading up to the break. I cried at work. I cried in the car. I cried when a song would come on the radio that was even remotely about love. I couldn’t look at happy couples’ announcements on social media. I swiftly scrolled past any wedding photos I saw. TV shows or movies that dealt with break-ups or romance were abruptly turned off. Finally having an answer felt like a release from some of the mental torture I was putting myself through. An end was in sight, and by then, I’d have given anything not to feel the crushing, indescribable pain in my chest.

I was surprisingly calm, given everything that I was losing. I’d already been through some of the grieving process in the weeks before, preparing for what I had heavily suspected was coming. It also helped that he was, and still is, so very kind about it all.

He said that I could keep living in the house, until I had a place to stay. I’m allowed to remain on his various insurances until I’m settled into my new apartment. I get to take pretty much anything that was given to us as wedding gifts, within reason. I can borrow his truck in the coming months, so long as he’s not using it. He trusts me enough to let me keep a key to the house for a while after I’ve moved out, and to hold onto our joint credit card so I can keep buying us groceries until I leave.

It’s all very amicable. It’s also a quiet kind of hell.

It seems like we talk more often now than we did in the last few months of our relationship. We’re lighthearted, joking, yet still sympathetic to each other’s gripes and sorrows. I still get along with his parents, and chat with his mother often. It’s as if nothing has happened—which adds all the more to the confusion and pain.

Because we’re so friendly, I have to fight the instinct to lean in for a kiss, hug, or other affectionate touch. I’ve slipped a few times, and called him ‘hun,’ like I used to. I catch myself still thinking about future plans that are now null and void. And every time I realize what I’ve done, or almost done, it aches.

Fortunately, I’m moving out soon. The timing is lucky in that my brother’s roommate is preparing to move, so I can slip right in and take up his part of the lease. I can have my cat, for a reasonable one-time fee. There is a small patio where I can move my potted plants and still maintain a semblance of a garden. Small balms for a big wound, but helpful nonetheless.

I’m looking forward to when I can put space between my old life and the new, free to fully embrace my feelings. I’m both curious and scared to know what’s lurking beneath my surface emotions. To understand what I really think of it all. To feel any anger or ill-thoughts that I’ve been guarding against, just to keep things friendly, and therefore bearable. 

I’ve not been feeling my best, both mentally and physically, for a while now. But today is a good day. I’ve been getting a few things done, I feel alert and motivated, and the sun is finally peeking through the clouds after several days of dreary weather.

I’ve also decided to take a small stab at #Inktober. I wanted to send out a bunch of postcards and letters this month to my friends, since I’ve been slacking as of late. On each, I’m drawing a tiny ink sketch, just for giggles. Right now the theme is Halloween, but that could change as the month progresses. 

I just want to get in the habit of doing something daily, especially as NaNoWriMo is coming up very quickly. I haven’t really been creating much in the last few months. I miss making art and handcrafting and writing for pleasure. I’ve forgotten the feel of soft yarn between my fingers, the sight of ink and paint staining my hands, the satisfaction of creating a pleasing pattern of beads to thread into a bracelet or necklace. 

I have a gorgeous craft room stuffed full of supplies, from decorative paper to colorful fabric. I own an adjustable dress form that I’ve barely used, piles of clothing to mod or mend, and all kinds of thread. I have five kinds of glue for all kinds of crafts, found objects with forgotten purpose, and all the tools I need to make something out of these raw materials.

And yet, there they sit, collecting dust. I rarely even go inside the room. I’d like that to change. (Well, to be fair, I’d like a lot of things to change in how I conduct my daily life, but one step at a time, eh?).

So, here are a few little nothing sketches. I was at a wedding on October 1st, so have two from the 2nd. Hopefully, they’ll open me up to other arts and crafts that I’ve been forgetting about all this time.

I’ve been having some very intense, often distressing dreams of late. I’m not sure what the cause is--perhaps catching up on lost sleep?--but they leave me feeling very odd.

Strange domestic tasks that I take some small enjoyment from:

Cleaning my glasses with a fresh, microfiber cloth.

Finally finding the energy to fold the mountain of clean laundry, and putting away the finished conquest.

Opening the front door so the dog can go outside.

Pouring the first cup of tea from a full pot.

Removing socks and underwear from their packages, and tossing them in the hamper for a new round of laundry.

Finishing a page in my little calm coloring book.

Tidying up the counters, kitchen table, and other surfaces.

The way my desk looks after I’ve freshly cleaned and organized it.

Finding a song I can’t seem to stop listening to, and using it to help me get through my daily tasks.

Putting a new round of letters and/or postcards in the mailbox.

Opening new mail and packages.

Using a brand new pen, marker, or paint for the first time.

The brief moment before you put pen to a new, blank page of paper.

Changing the toner cartridge in our laser printer (so easy!).

Putting a just-read book back on the shelf.

It’s been uncomfortably warm and humid as of late, which often leads to me sitting around, trying not to melt and not doing much of anything.

However, today it’s gloriously cool, and suddenly I’ve had the urge to do all kinds of little projects and tasks that have been building up over time. None of it is really grand, mind you, but I can’t help but be proud of FINALLY getting some things done around here.

(Also oh hey, the little plus sign thingy came back, so I can finally put things under a cut!)

Today begins the start of my trying to make working from home easier and more productive. Unfortunately, I’m already off to a bad start, but I’m going to power through it anyway. 

I stayed up much later than intended, writing with my partner-in-crime. We finally finished a scene without it becoming interrupted or abandoned for the first time in AGES and it felt wonderful. The downside, of course, is that I’m exhausted and I totally missed my start time (currently aiming for a 9:00-5:00ish day, M-F). But it was so worth it, so I’m going to give myself a pass for today, and begin at 10:00.

The plan is, no matter what, that time is blocked off for some form of work: be it for my freelance writing, working on my novel, building up my professional blog, or working on networking and improving my craft. 

For example, I need to read more, as that has proven to be one of my best ways to make my writing better (this includes books as well as perusing other freelance writer’s sites, articles written by others for the same clients, etc). I also need to learn how to use Scrivener, as it is a valuable writing platform that I’ve been hesitating to use due to the loss of time it would take to explore it. 

So yes. I’m trying to frame some of my passions as work, so that my brain allows me to see it as acceptable to actually engage these personal projects that could, one day, become professional ones. 

I’ve also finally found myself a therapist, and I’ve got to say, she’s lovely. The whole facility is; a place called Womankind Counseling Center. It’s a townhouse that has been converted into an office building, and the center is on the top floor. It’s bright and warm inside, paneled with white pine and painted in soothing slate blue and white. Everything is clean, and everyone seems so relaxed and capable in this place. I felt at home immediately. 

I’ve got another session planned for next week, as this one was merely a “get to know each other” visit. We’re going to focus on what I want to work on, and how to go about it. I’m looking forward to the challenge.

For now, I have a small list of ways to improve my work-from-home experience that I need to begin ticking off. The first one is... convincing my cat she’d rather not be in my lap. This is going to prove difficult, as this is the first time she’s slept in my lap while sitting at my desk since she was a kitten.

Despite having a crap day, still keep coming back to a good story I read yesterday.

It was a lovely short novella, included in a short story collection, “The Fair Folk.” The story is set in the Sherlock Holmes universe, but removed from any of Holmes’ adventures. 

The story is called, “The Gypsies in the Wood” by Kim Newman. The writing style is superb, and I didn’t notice the nod to the Diogenes Club and Mycroft Holmes until halfway through the story (mostly because I forgot what the Diogenes Club was until Mycroft’s name was dropped).

It deals with a branch of the club that specializes in the supernatural, which marries well with the theme of the collection. It also takes an interesting spin on doppelgangers and goblins. And, of course, I’m a sucker for good, strong female characters who stand up to the cultural limitations of their time.

Apparently, he’s written a few books on the Diogenes Club, and now I really want to pick one up.

I love short story collections for many reasons, but especially because they allow me to find new authors to enjoy whom I might never have come across otherwise. There’s also that nice aspect of not having to invest a huge amount of time into reading a single story, when you’ve already got a very busy life.