Finally, moving day is here. Everything of value has been placed into boxes and are ready to be locked away in storage for 22 days until my apartment in Alabama is ready to be occupied. These past few weeks have been incredibly stressful and emotionally draining. As I mentioned, Tom and I are slowly breaking up. We made the decision to discontinue our relationship due to distance. On top of dealing with that unfortunate reality, having to pack has forced me to sift through George’s remaining items. I never got rid of his clothes or belongings. In my apartment I was living alone, but had double the amount of things. I stored his stuff in closets, packed away and hidden from the harsh reality that life goes on.
Tom offered to help me pack and as we started to make progress he opened the closet where George’s belongings occupied and just sighed. Boxes and bags stacked nearly up to the ceiling, still taped shut. I knew the time was nearing, I needed to finally deal with it. I dragged bags out and opened them up to see what artifacts rested inside. There was one bag I never opened, and I know George packed it from our Brooklyn to Jersey City move. When I unzipped the bag, his old clothes were loosely folded but I smelled him. The clothes still carried his musk and I buried my head in one of his shirts. I felt his love for a moment and when I looked up I saw Tom.
Moving is always stressful, but this balance between my old life coming to an end, and beginning my new one has been wearing me out. I feel the hopelessness drifting in again, the slivers of self loathing reappearing and I feel out of control. I want to be in Montgomery, but things feel like they are dragging on. Just like the first few weeks of life without George. The days felt endless and hope of arriving to a place of salvation eluded me. I just want to get where I’m going faster, but it’s out of my control. Throughout the grieving journey, regaining control was essential to healing, and now it’s spilled over. July 24th needs to hurry.