The last time I moved, it was a little chaotic in nature and abrupt, but pretty mild compared to what I've lived through before. My ex had the help of her family, who took care of everything without really blinking an eye. They had the money, resources, and time to drop from their everyday lives to move us. Honestly, it was probably one of the easier moves I've gone through - I hardly had to lift a thing or be emotionally present. Maybe that's why it seemed so easy; I checked the fuck out.

I can't this time around. Because I can't, I want to enjoy saying goodbye to this place I've lived in for the longest I can recall. Four years is not a lot to some, but the four walls of my bedroom that I'm sitting in now are the most consistent thing I've had in my life. Nearly every day, I would come home to this place and feel safety and security I didn't know could last for as long as it has.

I'm not excited or looking forward to doing this, not just because moving sucks. Sure, but whatever. A friend of mine brought over boxes yesterday, and something about that took me somewhere mentally. I began to pack up the things I saw in my living room and kitchen but couldn't do too much because of the stacking of these boxes.

I'm not going to call what I had a flashback because I know what those are, and what I experienced wasn't vivid enough for that. My eyes were open, but I could see Gayle and her couch and the boxes stacked from floor to ceiling on my bare wall. I felt ill seeing them there. I felt sick seeing her on my couch. I wasn't drinking, though I did take a hit from my bong before my friend brought the stuff over. It couldn't have been from the weed. I was tired; perhaps that was it? Or, it was just an old thing I forgot my mind could do. Blend parts of the present with the past, making it easier to push away whatever I'm experiencing. Tell me, "Jen, you're tired, babe."

Eight days until I move out. I'm beginning to feel that boxed-in feeling, but so long as I remember to breathe and move, I know I will make it out of this just fine. I feel like I'm dramatic, but I know I'm not.

This is what happens when you feel a lot but don't know how to talk about it. Writing helps, it does—more extended form writing, like this.

Eight days.