One could say that the past 18 months have been quite a roller coaster ride from having lost my father, both of my in-laws and 2 beloved family pets. During that time I don't know how many 20 hour days I lived from the time my alarm went off in the morning until I put my head on a pillow, or on the headrest of the recliner chair before I was punching the z's outs or sucking in the unit walls with my snoring. Undoubtedly, only to wake up 4 hours later at the most (and if I was lucky), before I would be ready to start the day all over again.
The funny thing is, I would do it all over again if it just meant I could turn back the hands of time and get back to a place to call my own. After inheriting a mortgage free home, it made sense to move out of my rental place and into Steve's family home, right! The thought of moving out of my unit, the one place I had lived for the past 10 years was so daunting to me, that I procrastinated over and over again. I would say to myself, "come on Janeen, get up and pack a box". I would say it frequently, "come on Janeen, get up and pack a box" but I never quite could, get up and pack a box. Realising I was running out of time, I decided to pay someone to come in and pack up and relocate me because I had too much to do at the other end, the house I was moving into.
Procrastination...... it is a wonderful word for someone who is inherently lazy or someone who can't quite cope with the task they are supposed to be doing. I am both I have come to realise. It was because I didn't want to face the memories, I didn't want to make decisions on whether to keep a particular memento, I didn't want to acknowledge that I had grown up from the young girl who kept a set of coffee mugs she was given as a birthday present for her 21st. A set of mugs mind you, that I have never used and actually don't like. I didn't want to be the adult now who wrapped them up and put them in a box that says "good will".
I didn't want to pick up hair from my cat Mack that had inadvertently found it's way under the door and into the back a cupboard, I didn't want to be reminded that he wasn't with me anymore. I certainly didn't want to have to pack up the past 10 years of my life, because although it was trying at times, it was definitely the most settled I have ever been in my adult life. After living the life of a nomad, this unit, this little piece of my heaven in Eltham, was mine. It had my name on it, I chose it, I moved in there. This was the first place I could afford to live on my own without any help and the first place I didn't struggle to live from day to day. I even managed to save money and live beyond next weeks pay cheque. This is the house, where I grew up. But I was moving out.
Relocating into the new house is bittersweet. With the most amazing peace on earth backyard where I can literally sit for hours as I listen to nature surround me, is a place that grounds me and makes me feel calm and at peace. This is a good thing right? Unfortunately, it is a little more complicated than that. We are moving into Steve's old family home. His memories are ingrained in each wall and splinter of the floor. Everywhere I turn I am faced with a reminder of Steve's childhood. It is comforting for Steve and he could, understandably, just move in and leave my stuff in storage because everything is so familiar for him.
I wish I wasn't emotionally intelligent, I wish I didn't acknowledge that packing up this house to make room for my stuff, would to him, feel like I was trying to remove his parents from the house. I am sure, with every piece of linen, every item of clothing, every saucepan or dinner plate I am replacing with my own stuff, is stabbing his heart, just a little. I know it is, his tone when he talks to me at times sounds like it is filled with resentment. But as bad as that may sound, I totally understand why and I totally take that punch on the chin because he's a boy, not even close to understanding what his emotions mean or how they may or may not affect, the people around him.
This punching bag however, isn't quite as strong as it used to be. There is a bit of sand leaking from it's seams, not much, but enough to make the metophoric punches tear at the seams a little more. The stumbling block I have, is that before I can make this place feel like my own, I have to make room, I have to clear the place out before I can do anything. If a house hasn't been touched for many years and the occupants of the house were aging and ailing, there are quite a few surprises along the way that need attending to and in the meantime, all the boxes from my unit, all of my memories, all of my possessions are packed up in boxes, sitting on the verandah..... waiting for me to move in.
I am walking Steve through the mine field of change and reminding him along the way he isn't alone, reminding him that I love him and that I am trying to create "our place" trying to make this little peace of heaven ours. He has noticed the things I have kept that belonged to his Mum and Dad but has never mentioned the things that I haven't kept. I think he may not realise I have thrown out some of my stuff because I preferred what was already here, so it isn't all about my moving his parents out. Some of me is moving out as well.
I have had melt downs, tantrums, thrown boxes, tape and pens. I have sat outside and listened to the world instead of packing or unpacking a box. I wailed like a new born child and shed tears in silence. I have pushed against this change while embracing the new chapter in my life. I have rebelled against the new stage but slipped into it like wearing a comfortable pair of shoes and I have wished for something different while quietly looking around thinking "this is home".
It has come to a time now, that moving on is the only option. But who is it that actually needs to move on. How is it even possible to move on when one is still in the early stages of grieving for not just one person, but 3 people and two pets (which sometimes hurts more). How do I enable someone else to move on when I feel like my feet are completely cemented in no mans land? How do I move on if I can't even move around the place I am living in without my shins being abused or my toe stubbed. How do I move on..... as many wise people have said to me over the past few days, one box at a time. With each one box I move out, I can move one box in, and that, my friends, is how I am moving on.
© Janeen Hayes 2017
