Another Final Push

Getting ready for the final push (another one). Going to go get a rental truck today to start moving everything over into storage. Needless to say, I’m not going back to work today. How can I? This has to be done. There’s no putting it off until the weekend, or next week. I’ll be losing power and phone services here pretty soon.
I talked to my dispatcher at Epes this morning. He didn’t sound like he’s convinced that I’m coming back. Which is absurd, really. Why wouldn’t I tell them outright if I wasn’t coming back? But, well, I think he’s getting pushed a bit by some of the higher ups to determine what I’m doing. So he’s asking the questions he’s supposed to.
I keep looking back at how much time I’ve wasted over the past couple of weeks. I’ve escaped into World of Warcraft many times. I’ve been laid low by depression a couple of times. And simply put, because of the heat, there’ve been days when I simply didn’t feel like doing this, whether physically or emotionally.
I also have to admit that the ever-present depression has gotten me a lot. I know that sounds like I just repeated myself, but I mean in a different way. It seems like no matter how early I get up and start, within four or five hours, my spirit just gives out on me. I don’t have it in me.
I know some people think that whenever I say something like that, I’m talking about the breakup of my marriage. But really, most of it has to do with losing this house. I’m packing up everything, and I don’t know when I’ll ever have a home again. Just as a matter of packing, I’ve had to go through all this stuff, and I’ve been constantly reminded of the decades of history that have been spent here. Not just my own, but Mama’s and my aunt Loretta’s.
Maybe I just hit on it. In a way this house felt to me like a living memorial to Loretta. Now it’s gone. And in the last few weeks I’ve not only been putting away my things, as well as Mama’s and an unfair amount of The Wife’s, but I’ve been packing away the memory of Loretta, as well. Sadly, Loretta didn’t leave much behind but the house.
I don’t know. I might feel different about some things if I hadn’t for the last few weeks felt like I was standing in the middle of a battlefield after a fight, trying to clean up everything with a push-broom, painfully aware that whether I like it or not, whether I wanted it or not, this has become my responsibility and no one was going to come help.
I guess you could call that a dig at The Wife. She came and got a few of her things, and hasn’t shown the least bit of interest in what was left behind. That’s surprising to me, considering what some of it is. I suppose coming and getting the things that she did get one day a couple of weeks ago was her token contribution. But you’d think some of these relics of her childhood would mean something to her. They don’t seem to.
It’s also grating to me that she seems to think it’s perfectly reasonable for me to put her belongings in storage along with mine. Does anyone else understand why this bothers me? She leaves me for another man, flies to Las Vegas for a fling, and expects me to store a dozen or so boxes of her belongings, as well as a full bedroom suite, until she sees fit to come get them? Hell, after all this she has the nerve to state emphatically that she wants our bedroom suite, and expects me to store it for her until she has somewhere to put it? You have any idea how much room a sleigh bed, a dresser, mirror and chest are going to take up in my storage building?
Well, she knows me well enough to know that I’ll do so, albeit with complaint. What else am I going to do with it? I’m not evil enough to sell it. And although everyone seems to think I should just put her belongings out on the side of the road, she’s knows all too well that I’m not evil enough to do that.
So I guess I should shut the fuck up and get busy.
This turned into a bitch session. I didn’t mean for it to. Quite frankly, as it gets closer to the reality of all this stuff being moved into storage and me going to live on a truck for the foreseeable future, I find myself having moments where I’m somewhat emotional.
Hehe. That’s carefully parsed Wic-language, meaning I find myself staring at the walls in disbelief, realizing that this is all-too-real. Even with everything sitting around in boxes, it still sort of felt like home. Today I officially dismantle that.
And in one last associated bitch, the Universe has chosen to fuck with me today. A cousin is coming over later to pick up the refrigerator and freezer. That means I’ll have to deal with his annoying wife buzzing around my head, determined to do something to help but doing nothing but being in my damned way. The trip to Gastonia to pick up the truck has been turned into an outing with another cousin and an aunt who need a ride to their lawyer to sign some paperwork. And at least two other people have decided that they want to come over today and be underfoot.
I should appreciate the company, I guess. But the only thing I can think of is that my best friend today is going to be my hand-truck (my dollie, for my Northern friends). Nothing and no-one else is necessary. I know from past experience that I’m just going to have a lot of bodies in my way. And quite frankly, today of all days I don’t need the politics of old friends and old girlfriends. And geez. Does Mama really need to try to fix that damned broken down rocking chair today of all days?
In a way, really, putting everything I own, the remains of Loretta’s life, the miscellaneous debris of Mama’s life, and the pile of stuff that The Wife can’t be bothered with, on a truck and sending it into semi-permanent storage is a form of ritualized grieving for me. I kind of wish people could have some respect, and, for this one day at least, just leave me to it.

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