I’m stuck in a stage of grief. I gaze out the window overlooking a snowy prairie and a charmingly named furniture store called The Dump, and a mental tape in my head plays: I’m only here temporarily. My motivation wanes. I consider trial leasing a car to acquire a bit more independence here in the ‘burbs, despite not having driven for 20 years. I’m only here temporarily. The determination leeches away. My friends and family reassure me that my apartment is lovely and decorated beautifully, it’s really not much smaller than the condo. I’m only here temporarily. Satisfaction dwindles. I sit at the computer poised to say – something. I’m only here temporarily. The procrastination kicks in.
I am only here temporarily, until the summer of 2016 when my credit has healed enough to let me purchase something. But that’s over 18 months away – a year and a half of living to do. But as the days go by and I go through the motions, something inside keeps me from smoothly accepting the permanence of this particular transition. What I knew is completely gone against my will: the job, the career, the mental wherewithal, the condo, the lifestyle. It’s so damn final. I recognize nothing but my friends. They ask how am I doing in the ‘burbs and I always answer: adjusting. How long does it take to adjust? My pragmatic self is silent – strangely so. I check in on my sartorial psyche Jodi, Jada, and Julie but they are silent too. Well, not Jodi; I suspect she’s the one resisting change, resisting acceptance. I’m not sure what to do for her.
This feeds a kind of mental paralysis. I procrastinate and magnify issues until I’m an inert, anxious, fearful blob. There are things I need to do: physical therapy, going for the final post-cataract exam, getting new glasses, test driving, exploring my new world, writing. Those same baby steps, all over again. I think about toddlers and their determination to walk just like everybody else. After three and half years of barely holding my life together with spit and wire, I want a “normal” existence too. If psychological acceptance isn’t happening right now, then determination and discipline is the only way through.
So I plant my butt in a chair and type while that tape plays: I’m only here temporarily, and remind myself that I don’t need an ideal setting to pour out my thoughts. While my psyche still mourns for what was lost, part of me must look forward and do something. If you can’t write about the fandom or HIM, Dr. G. says with a twinkle in her eye, then write what you feel now.
So here I am. Writing.