As Good as a Fire

We have officially been in our new place in Denver for about two weeks. The moving truck we hired to cart our stuff from Columbus to Denver is still en route, so we have been living with essential furniture (a bed, some chairs, an amazing leather sectional Basil won at auction for $1 when we got to town) and not much else. We have what we need and we love the new house, so other than hoping our stuff arrives intact at some point, we have been enjoying the new place.

This is the first time I have hired someone to drive my/our stuff for a move. The extended wait for the truck has made me realize how much I am enjoying spending time in the new house before it gets filled up with belongings. The lack of clutter, paired with the invisible possibility of what the new place will look like once it gets set up. What kind of art will Basil find to put up on the walls? Who will come to our first dinner party? How many years will we end up enjoying here?

These reveries of what lies ahead are the payoff of my enduring the lead up to moving day, which was accompanied by months of anxiety and panic. Having survived some horrendous moves in the BB (Before Basil) phase of my life, there were many phases of the moving process which the mere thought of this time around sent me into a tailspin of terror. Finding a new place to live both Basil and I would like at a price we could afford. Sorting through and packing all of our belongings. Transporting all of the dogs and cats from Columbus to Denver.

The more time that elapses in the SB (Since Basil) phase of my life, the more chances I am given to identify dysfunctional emotional reflexes. The idea of packing up the house, for instance, kept resulting in my heart beat quickening and teeth gritting when we discussed it for this move. I would start raising my voice in routine conversations, especially during the weekend just prior to the the truck arriving. Basil would calmly point out I was raising my voice, which would lead me to examine if this response was really warranted given what we were talking about. The answer was always no.

I have been shocked to discover just how many of these emotional short circuits I have. I went through so many shitty moves in different parts of my life that I am now hard wired to be automatically anxious about new moves. Even when I can get myself to recognize that in actuality the move happening now is going to be different, is going to be fine, I have to consciously focus on calming myself down. When I spend time having to talk myself out of actively sabotaging my own emotional well-being, I become frustrated. With enough time, I hope I can alter these reflexes, rewire myself to consider the actual matter at hand before my body preemptively suggests an incongruent emotional response.

“Three moves is as good as a fire,” my ex-husband said to me repeatedly throughout the course of the six moves we would undertake during our eight years living together. Since I frequently felt like setting myself on fire during our relationship, there always seemed to be some truth in this expression.

Now that I have rebooted my life, I can look at a move to a new city like I am looking at the mostly empty rooms in our place in Denver: plenty of new spaces to have plenty of wonderful new experiences, complete with a husband who truly loves and respects me. Not an infernal blaze, but a blank canvas, just waiting to be painted.