My house looks like a rubbish tip and not a well-organised one. I’m moving and my previously ordered (mostly) belongings are now strewn haphazardly around the place as if thieves ransacked my home last night. But there have been no thieving visitors, only me and my random packing methods over the past few weeks.
It’s a strange feeling to be putting all my stuff into boxes. When you live in one place for 13 years, you accumulate a lot of memories and items to go with them. I’ve rediscovered artwork from my childhood and travel documents from my first solo overseas trip. I also found three small figurines tucked into the back of a sideboard. I can remember proudly buying them at Paddy’s Market with my very own pocket money when I was about 12 years old. As I held them in my hands I was transported back to a time when my life felt softer and gentler somehow.
As things are moved, packed or given away, my emotions tumble this way and that – just like I hope the boxes won’t do in the removalist’s storage container on Thursday.
Anxiety, optimism and fearfulness have paid a few visits. Tears have been shed as I’ve recalled a fond or painful memory. I’ve pictured my two cats SuperPuss and Mirabel, now passed, wandering then hallway and keeping me company, showing me love and lifting my spirits. I’ve seen again in my mind’s eye, my body on the floor sobbing with heartbreak over more than one man who did not deserve the love I offered.
I wrote and published my first anonymous blog post in this house – terrified that someone would know it was me. I also wrote and published my first book here too and began my first business enterprise.
When I move into my new home, it will hold no memories for me. Instead it will be a clean slate; a new place to create a different life.
The thought of that newness and letting go of the known of this place is scary and enticing in turns. But before I reach that place, I must first navigate and bring order to the chaos I’m currently surrounded by.
And get my hands on some more boxes!