Panic

Have I mentioned recently that I don't handle transition well?

In an hour I leave to pick up my mom, and go get the truck we're using to move.

I'm laying here on my mattress, on the floor of my boxed up and empty bedroom, fighting off a panic attack.

I started the morning off right by puking.

There are frightened tears running down my cheeks.

By tonight I'll be okay again.

And then I'll probably panic again on Tuesday.

I wonder sometimes where I learned to fear change.

I'd hoped this move would be a bit easier. After all, I've only lived in this place for a year. I lived in my previous home for nearly 24 years.

And yet, as I lay down to go to bed last night, all I could think was "this is the last night I'll spend here." And, "I feel safe here."

I fear the unknown.

I fear the new transit arrangements I'll have to figure out.

And the "differentness" of a new house, new bedroom, new street and neighborhood.

I'm exhausted. Three hours of sleep is not enough to have the energy to get through the day.

And I don't think I'm going to be able to eat either. My stomach remains extraordinarily unhappy with me.

I guess I'll just keep praying.

And stay hydrated. (In small sips, so it stays down).

Okay.

There's still packing to finish.

Here I go.

Moving

Things may be a little quiet around here for the next week or so. Our move happens in approximately 11 hours. Which means I should be sleeping. But I'm not.

We move all of our things into storage at the new place tomorrow (today now, I guess).

But we don't actually take possession of the new place until noon on Tuesday.

So we're going to live in limbo and crash at my parent's place for a few days.

Which means I might be a little busy.

And that I probably won't get around to blogging for the next few days.

Ah well.

You'll survive without me I'm sure.