I remember the time I moved to the city I still live in, five and a half years ago. I had driven all the way up there with my mom, in a car packed with everything I had in my room. I had so many things that I wanted to take with me that we couldn’t even see out of the rear windshield (very dangerous, as my mom kept repeating). My roommate’s dad would have brought the furniture in his van.
We spent a whole day struggling with IKEA instructions on how to build a closet that would actually look like one, or to set up a bed the right way, and spent the next day complaining about lower back pain. Nevertheless, we went out for a walk in the city, which proved itself to be surprisingly therapeutic. It was a nice august afternoon, I remember.
But the whole time I had this urge to be alone, and I couldn’t wait for my mom to be gone. Or maybe I couldn’t wait to start my new life.
The thing is, when we finally walked to her car, I couldn’t help but feel sad and anxious at the same time. Of course, I tried to hide it until I saw the car turning left at the end of the road and then I let out a long sigh,
went back to my new home
and allowed myself to be sad for a while.
heimdimension 