Waiting to Collide

There’s nothing quite so tiring as moving.  Physically as well as emotionally.  Over the past two days, what was MY space, is returning to a room in a house that is not my home.

All of my linens have been packed up, my dishes, my finer toiletries.  I’m using Chuck’s towels, Chuck’s plates.  I inherited one of his perfumes.  I’m drinking a beer brought over by a friend of Chuck’s.  I’m living out of a large suitcase for the next month.

I’m feeling pretty lost at this point.  Boston has always seemed like a pit stop in relation to my life.  I’ve only been here a year and a half, and I have condensed a failed relationship (turned friendship), two jobs, and one mental breakdown into that short time.

I’ve learned a few indispensable lessons while here:

The lion’s share of dissatisfaction I have felt in my life is due to an illness, not any failing of my own.  Furthermore, cycles of misery have altered my decisions.  Particularly in the realm of relationships.

I’ve been compensating for a lack of personal stability by chasing stable people.  This has always proved fatal for the relationship.  Chuck and I have talked about this at length, and life philosophies come into play.  He and other lovers I have had over the years have a strong need for predictability/safety in their lives.  Over time, I grow bored and frustrated, and leave.  I’ll never do well with these sorts…  The “nice guys.”  I’m much too caustic and mercurial, and the lack of stimulation and friendly antagonism leads me to stagnate.  Good men, just bad for me.

I have felt like a failure for not having finished college yet, or knowing what direction to go in.  I keep changing my mind, thanks to the disease.  Changing how I feel about life, uprooting, flailing, drowning.  I’m reasonably certain of my course now, and am heading in that direction with a plan now.

Every facet of my life is in flux.  My location.  My relationships.  My career.  My mind.

As a manic-depressive with a delta tattooed on her neck, this feels comforting.