63/90, moving

I couldn't concentrate last night. My mind was bounced between projects, weighing time lines. I kept drinking water to keep myself from the eating that happens when I don't know what else to do. I kept running to the the bathroom.

Then I decided to just clean the bathroom, though I'd originally promised myself I was done doing the cleaning in this house. I used cleaning wipes to scrub every surface.

I considered using them to clean the mirrors, but restrained myself. That never goes well. You end up getting out of the shower and look at the warped, slimy fog clinging to the mirror and feeling like you're in a horror movie.

I looked at the clean bathroom, decided that it was for sure the last time I'd be doing it and felt the need to keep going. I grabbed the vacuum and the dollar store version of pledge that makes your hands smell like lemon if you use it too much.

I love my room. It took the first year of living here to gather my things about me in a way that felt perfectly comfortable. And as I was taking down pictures and folding up blankets and dusting off random things (Mary and Joseph, a pig made out of cardboard, a ring holder that has the shape of a sombrero), I felt a pang in the pit of my stomach.

Since I was seven, I've shared a room with my sister. For the first two years of college, I lived with a girl in one Z-shaped room on campus. Now, for these last two years, I've had the ability to close my door and close out the world. I've had a room of my own.

For the next month, I'll be gradually packing up my boxes and returning home, moving back into a room with my sister. I'm excited to have her so close again, to replay those Slumber Party games. I can imagine that she's not so excited to have someone else crowding her space and closet again.

From my sister's room, I move onto an apartment with my husband. It's strange to think that he may not want the pictures that I've had hanging in a collage by the window. Or that the way I arrange my books doesn't match the way he arranges his. It's strange to think that the next few years of life will be remembering how to share a space with someone and learning how to accommodate the needs (spacial, aesthetic, organizational...) of two stubborn people in a small apartment with no money to decorate the way they'd like.

It's strange to think that the need to be on my own and carve out a space far away has started to feel so childish and removed from me. In high school, the furthest into my future I could think was a college graduation and an immediate move to an apartment alone in a city where I knew no one. I thought that the being alone would be a challenge, and I have an endless need to challenge myself–to take on tasks until I'm just above breaking.

Now, the challenge is the connection–allowing myself to become codependent, to share my space with someone and not seek to please them, but seek to live in peace with them. This sounds easy, and I love my family (I'm including Joe in this) so much that it feels easy... but we know it's not. We know that this is why we go away for college; we threaten to run away; we break rules and cheat on chores. The challenge is to not need these things. To be always happy that you have the opportunity to share your space, your experiences, with someone.