I am lost.
I’ve spent most of the last six months fighting this fact. Scraping up scraps of what I know to be true to re-organize them into some version of myself that I can take into polite society.
I’m doing that with this move, too.
The impetus of moving (besides ending the looping replay of my worst childhood memories) was a fresh start. “I want to pack up my car and just go. Start from scratch,” I told friends.
My famed practicality crept in. “Well. I really can’t afford to furnish a new space from scratch. I should at least take this bedroom furniture. Besides, where would I put my clothes? Thirty-five is too old to live out of boxes.”
I forgot the emptiness is the point.
An open space. To feel my way through. To fill with new pieces. New habits. At whatever pace works for me.
This–freedom to decide on a dime my life as constructed no longer works and I’d like a new one–is my Reason Why. With no dependents, no partner to consider, I don’t have to squeeze into old, ill-fitting roles to keep the peace.
I can throw my hands up, say “I don’t even know who I am right now,” and live in a barely furnished apartment while I figure it out.
I can never figure it out and live anyway.