Misty, water-colored memories

Now that I move in approximately five minutes, I'm starting to have short, intermittent panic attacks about the whole thing.

For one, packing is incredibly overwhelming. Every time I pack another box, I feel like 17 more things fill the space I just emptied. Also I'm incredibly sentimental, so it's hard. I was randomly cleaning out some things late the other night and came across a birthday card from my grandma, and what'd I do? Sob. Naturally. Because it was 12:20 a.m. and I had one too many glasses of wine. I couldn't stop, and why? It has nothing to do with packing or moving, it just hit me that I missed her, so that's how I roll. 

My walls are empty, so the place hardly feels cozy anymore. It's not "home" anymore, which is disconcerting. I called that place home for three years. I remember how excited I was to move in, and how much life has occurred since. Slumping onto the couch the day I lost my job, jumping around the living room the day I was offered a new one. Laying in bed the morning I found out my grandpa died. Crying on the couch the night I waited for word that grandma died. Breakups. Makeups. Christmases. Sleepovers. Redecorating. I remember the day I decided I wasn't going to re-sign my lease. I wrote an email to my landlord full of "it's not you, it's me," and cringing at the thought of hurting her feelings. It felt like a breakup, really. 

I feel like I need to tell my apartment that it'll all be OK, that it's in good hands, and I'm sorry for abandoning it. I won't, of course, and I'll move into my new place and be so full of excitement and feelings that I'll soon forget the poor apartment I left behind. But locking the door behind me on Saturday will make me sad. Dropping off the keys, and my final rent payment will tug at least four different heart strings.  

I'm a little nervous to leave behind all the familiar. My running routes, for one. I can run them with my eyes closed. The smell of burnt toast from the pasta manufacturer down the road. The sounds and the people and the sight of the capitol building in the distance.  

The other side of town feels so far away. Like, way over there. What if no one wants to come see me? It's, like, an entirely different zip code. I don't even know my address. And all of the stuff I have to unpack -- what about that? I don't wanna.

I'm very excited for a new home, and new things, but I'm scared of the change. I'll get over it as soon as I roll out of bed and can immediately throw in a load of laundry because it's RIGHT THERE, in my room. Or when I can load the dishwasher and be all THAT'S RIGHT, SUCKERS. WASH YOURSELVES. But still.

The new will be good and my mind will adjust, but I guarantee my heart will try and drive me straight back to my old, little apartment for days until I realize it's no longer home. I've gotta make room for a new home up in there. It'll take some time.