Tag: moving out

18. Is it only me that’s planning what he needs? 

In my lifetime I have moved quite a lot, and most of that moving was done when I was a child. My father was in the Air Force, and every eighteen months or so off we would all go to pastures new. Sometimes abroad, sometimes not. The upheaval was cleverly absorbed by my mum, who could pack up an entire house in next to no time and have three children, a dog and a family’s worth of belongings ready to be moved with, on one occasion, just over a week’s notice. I have learned to pack up and ship out quickly. I’m good at packing – tricks shared by a busy mum are usually good ones. And I can plan the best order to shift things, what’s essential and what goes where.

I’ve been thinking about how best to divide up the things we have. There is furniture and beds, wardrobes, drawers and a sofa at the new flat. There are dining chairs around a big wooden kitchen table – I know because I built the table myself, the first proper thing I’ve ever made. There’s a cooker, washing machine and fridge. There’s nothing else.

Has he thought about how to divide our stuff? Is it only me that’s planning what he needs? 

I’ve gone through lists of bedding, towels, kitchen things in my head to be as fair as I can. I’m trying not to think about the fact I have bought nearly everything in the house. It was my spare cash that funded an Ikea trip or – and this one does irk – replaced something he broke. I have to leave that thought somewhere marked “get over it”.

But he’s mentioned nothing.

So do I say something? Even suggest that he might like to get some boxes in for the move? Book a van and even a man? If this is his new life ahead of him, to be his own man, forge his own path, then surely he’s going to need a cup for his tea and a pot for his porridge.

I think I’m going to try and shut up and see if he notices. I have tendency to take over in a situation where I know I can sort things. That’s fine when you’re together, but we’re not. It’s not my job anymore – as I keep being reminded (by friends, not him). So I’ll bite my tongue.

Ow!

15. So now I have to pick my anger apart. 

Fridays are always my turn to do the early dog walk. Mondays, Fridays and Saturdays have always been mine since he gave up teaching totally and those are his yoga instructor days. I’ll have to get used to every day is early dog walk day – but that’s hardly the worse thing in the world.

Back to today, and it’s wet and windy. Lovely. You can never take a brolly on a dog walk but it would be nice if my hood stayed up.  I’m walking around Brockwell Park. It’s one of South London’s delights, lots to see and do, beautiful spaces and great views – well, not today obviously. And as I stomp around throwing a tennis ball for an increasingly muddy  dog I suddenly get cross. About an discussion I’m having in my head with the soon to be ex. I’m holding both sides of course ( don’t pretend you don’t do this! ) and his (?!) request is really making me cross. I know it’s not real. But it’s there all the same.

So now I have to pick my anger apart. 

He moves out between Christmas and new year. I don’t want to be here for it. I’ve decided to go up north with the dog for a few days, and especially over New Year’s Eve. I haven’t told him that. I am taking the car – it’s mine anyway as he can’t, and very much won’t, drive. But my anger is that I’m convinced he’ll expect me to help.

There is so much he hasn’t considered, let alone slightly planned for. He’s happy to be going, I can tell. I would imagine that he is trying to keep a lid on it. But how head-in-the-clouds can you be? Does he still expect others to be the grown-ups for him? has he even thought about the logistics, what he’s going to take, what he’ll need? What he’s going to pack it in?

I have. I’ve worked out what bedding he can have so we both have an equal amount of new stuff to get. I know we have plenty of cutlery, china, mugs to share out. I’m thinking about the pots I really like that I’ve bought over the years and which ones I’ll grudgingly part with. I look at the shelves of books and look forward to most of them going. I see virtually a wall full of vinyl going with the stereo. I have walls of pictures – I’ve taken so many over the years – and I don’t mind what he takes, I really don’t. I’ll happily help him pack.

I just don’t want to help him leave.

13. Reality is a real punch to the guts. 

We have a date for the move out, and, despite the fact that i’ve organised its possibility, some how that really hurts. It’s going to be a month sooner that I expected, and it’s reality is a real punch to the guts. I’ve just had conformation by email and he doesn’t even know yet. And I don’t know how I wan’t him to take the news.

I don’t seem to be taking it well at all. Reduced to tears, on my own. A proper low point.

So, how do we do this so it’s ok for me as well? Because, while I’m trying to be ok I’m really not, not right now. This wasn’t what I wanted. I’m scared and shaky and feel as if I don’t get a say.

I do. I won’t feel like this tomorrow, I’ll pick myself up, look on the bright side, and all the possibilities ahead. Blah blah fucking blah!

But once, just once, I want him to say how fucking brilliant I’m being!