Home.Sweet.I’M BOYCOTTING.

In an effort to maintain transparency as an anxiety-stricken individual, there are two ways to write this post.

PART ONE:

I had an anxiety attack last night.  It wasn’t a big one like in years past, but it wasn’t a teensy, tiny one that I could get through without bringing out the good old lorazepam either.  That was the first time in a while too.  Shoot.

Sometimes, it just creeps up like that.  Here I am going through life doing a-okay: posting pictures of our new home, smiling happily and in love with my rock-star husband, and honestly going a little crazy over my near perfect moving binder complete with inventory spreadsheets of every box that’s now blocking simple walkways in our home.  Pretty irrevocable if you asked me.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that as little as 72 hours ago, I said something like this to Trey:

“Okay, don’t hold me to this….” (adding that in because… well… the reason for this post…)

“I actually kind of like moving.  It gives me this really awesome opportunity to purge and organize like crazy.  It’s giving me a vision for our new home that will surely NEED a feature in REAL SIMPLE when I’m through with it…”

Trey: <chokes on dinner> (because surely I must be kidding)

“But don’t hold me to it.”

My back hurts and I’m sick of the boxes that are taking up room in my home that’s reverting back into a plain old house with every photo that’s packed and every stray sock that’s thrown in the garbage.  And I legit cried over the wife I was last year when I was packing Trey’s coat and a receipt fell out.  I was reminded of date nights with him that didn’t have us at home with take-out watching Netflix.  I could almost put money on it that I was showered, did my make-up, AND EVEN blow-dried my hair… perhaps even gone for a run earlier too.  The point: we were intentional.

This damn life is like Mount Kilimanjaro right now- packing all day, every day, from the moment Trey leaves, right on into when he gets home (which for the record is at least ten hours).  And can I please just boycott my house and this home?!  And can we talk about my last post, is it ironic, Jesus, or just the cruel devil reminding me that this is all worth something?!

In between my angered, suffocated chest and the chase of breaths that I just couldn’t seem to catch, my thoughts flew by like a wildfire that no matter how hard I tried, couldn’t be extinguished.  My husband held me tightly like he does, as we waited for the ashes to dissipate into the aftermath…

The kitchen.  The dishes.  The unfolded laundry.  The mess.   The messes.  THOSE BOXES!!

My parents house….

the contractor…

the cleaners…

the listing price… Dad…  Infertility…  The… …. … … …….{lorazepam}

But seriously- how would YOU function??

Among the tears, I remember saying something like, “Can I just die until tomorrow…” and I drifted into a deep “worry-free” sleep.  But everyday is a new day….and that was my last lorazepam, so here I woke:

The crock-pot that he couldn’t even put in the damn refrigerator.  The reminder that his laundered shirts are still at the dry cleaner.  And this morning: he. ate. my. cereal.  AND only left a swallow of milk for me…..

Those tiny sparks that are floating off of the ashes are about to catch my breath.

The sane part of me is walking around with a fire extinguisher and a phone with Trey’s number on speed dial, telling him asking him politely to take some time off of work to stay home and help me finish.  The crazy in me is screaming “SHOULDN’T THAT COME FROM HIM ANY WAY?!?!” but wait, isn’t this supposed to be my job?  

The struggle is real: is there a job description for SAHW, or would this all fall under “other duties as assigned” any way?

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Marriage 101: COMMUNICATE.  clearly we must have been sleeping through the section that covered “moving do’s and don’ts”.

Interpersonal Relations 101: ASK FOR HELP.  clearly I have a case of OCD and do not trust others with my insane inventory spreadsheet moving system (to be future-featured in REAL SIMPLE).  

Acceptance 501: YOU HAVE ANXIETY.  JUST BREATHE.

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PART TWO:

My husband and I are moving.  It’s not an easy task; packing up our first home as the subtle prompts are speaking to our emotional and nostalgic hearts reminding us that this was the place we truly became an “us.”

There’s a crib in the guest room that we really not only thought but trusted we’d be using here and a wedding dress that’s hanging in a spare closet.  It’s the home where I learned to become a wife: to submit to my husband out of love; to cherish him for all the ways that he is loving me.  When I’m having my moments; the ways that he holds me when I can’t breathe, the way he works to provide a home that I can proudly keep (mostly), he’s a good, good, man. 

Our house goes on the market in 7 days and while I’ve figured out this moving thing pretty dang well, it is my 18th time after all, I still need help.

We’ve hired contractors for things that I already know how to do, but we’re running out of time (#theregoesmypride).  There’s a giant POD that will be in our driveway in 48 hours, and then we’ll say goodbye to our possessions for at least 3 months (#firstworldproblems).  There are boxes that are waiting to be packed full of more junk.  And then I need to neatly organize each box for our friends who will be helping us load the pod (because nobody likes helping with an unorganized move).  I could easily say “something’s gotta go,” but it’s not exactly how I work.  My husband knows that so instead decides to clench the moment with:

“We’re in the home stretch, Sweetie…”

IT’S A DOUBLE HEADER!!!!  There’s another house that’s waiting to go through the same process and we only have three weeks to do it!

I want to quit.  I just want to boycott my house and home right now.  St. Thomas really was a lovely place to visit…. to continue with my procrastination, as soon as I am finished writing this, I’m going to start looking at tickets for me, myself, and I.  I’ll book my returning flight for May 26.

BUT REMEMBER, WE’RE BLESSED.  I’m an anxious mess, but we’re blessed.  My husband has agreed to take tomorrow and Friday… AND Monday off of work to help me in the “home stretch.”  #blessed.

He’ll hold me and encourage me like he always does, and we’ll get it done.  He’ll buy more milk on his way home so that I can continue packing without disruptions.  He may even pick up his own dry-cleaning so that I can focus on the small home repairs that I hate paying someone else to do.  #blessed

He’ll come home and remind me of the smiles that were taking place outside of the walls of our current home while we stood in the wall-less rooms of our future home. #blessed

He’ll remind me of the many, MANY friends and family we’ll host here… starting with my niecey-Kate and brother, Jeff.

and I’ll be distracted thinking about my brother climbing the beams of our home…

and of my Trey trying to keep up with them…

I’ll stop to take in the special moments with my parents.

We’ll remind each other of these moments in the future…and cherish every moment both easy and hard.

He’ll remind me of the laughter that breaks past the anxiety.

and then, he’ll stand next to me holding that silver lamp while I write it into my very special moving binder before placing it in the box with random pens, and leftover pocket change (that of course were also inventoried.)

He’ll shake his head with a murmured “yes, dear” when I cry “uncle” …and then I’ll drop into a tireless rest with him by my side, waking to my own voice of yearning: “wake up, kick ass, repeat.”

ps. moving is hard.

pps. life is harder.

ppps. marriage with him isn’t.

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Beholding isn’t always cake but maybe just, like, a small piece of pie…and whipped cream.