Where is home? Where your mail is sent to? Your birthplace? Where you make awkward love with your lady? Home can be defined in thousands of different ways, and I define it as where I belong, and I no longer belong in Minneapolis. Comedy became stressful and egomaniacal, relationships and friendships became straining and exhausting, and I'm worried that if I spend too much time alone that I will relapse, and I don't want to purchase a one-way ticket to a place I have no intention of returning from. Instead, I need to go where people have unconditional love for me, a place I feel safe and respected.
Red and green: my first headshot, 2011
I took a long list of my belongings today. Most of my belongings are clothes with holes in them and books on the catastrophes of WWII. There are a few bizarre odds and ends, like my ship porthole turned mirror, a didgeridoo, some artwork I created in a drunken hurry, and my six foot ruler I found after a strange dream about things larger than their actual size and it only seemed right to bring it "home." Aside from my material possessions I've become sentimentally attached to, I have four IKEA side tables, two IKEA lanterns, an IKEA Expedit cube shelf, a tube tv, and my ex-boyfriend's couch, which I've decided to sell and give him the money since we have a similar plans in terms of leaving Minneapolis. The old me would have sold the couch, bragged about it on Facebook, and bought as much Jameson as I could carry out of the store while trying not to look like a complete drunk. But times have changed.
And then there's the bed. The bed I fell in love in, the bed I sleep alone in, the bed that doesn't give me back problems.
Of course, there's the largest list in the world consisting of upcoming appointments, refills, and phone calls I'll have to make before my departure. The reason I've decided to put things into place three months in advance is because I won't feel stressed. When it comes to sobriety, people have told me to not make any major decisions within the first year of recovery. I've politely dismissed this advice as I'm doing something to help myself. As of today, I have roughly 10 weeks to sell some cheap particle board furniture, see a few doctors, and do some major math in regards to traveling expenditures.
The drive from Minneapolis to Seattle is roughly 23 hours and 1,600 miles long. The trip will take me on I-94 West until it merges with I-90 West somewhere in Buttfuck, Montana. My dad has offered to travel with me. However, I'm leaning toward traveling solo. I've done solo travel before on a much grander scale, so domestic travel should just be a really long walk in the park. I'd like to get off the beaten path for a bit, whether that means taking a detour to Portland before going home, or stopping somewhere near Yellowstone.
My route back home. If there's anything of importance to see in North Dakota, I'm listening.
When I moved to Minneapolis, I came with a Subaru and an angry chinchilla in the backseat. Now I'll be returning with a black Soul and a heavily sedated cat. When I was heading east on I-90 outside of Spokane, I remember looking in the rear view mirror and thought "Wait, that's where I'm from..." At least this time, I'll know what's ahead of me. My dad mentioned to me the other day that he enjoys that I've made my life about experiences and not material objects. I mean, I do love the shit out of this weird shelf thing that I hang all my knick knacks on. But when I think back to things that truly make me happy, I was never holding something or buying something. It was simply looking at something, hearing something that instilled a feeling of peace and accomplishment.
This was my first day in Minnesota. The accumulated snowfall was somewhere around 40 inches with the temperature at -10F. Immediately regretting resettlement.
I've lived in this house for three and a half years, the longest time I've lived in one place since 2005:
3848 54th Ave
205 Main Street
4011 40th Ave
3672 Indian Pipe Loop
6312 California Ave
5417 Fauntleroy Way
13547 Evener Way
That's a lot of moving, but I need to take it upon myself to broaden my shoulders and do it again, but this time, I'm doing it for me: not for college, not for a boy, not for divorce, just me. Naturally my mom is thrilled that I'm moving home because she's constantly worried about me, as she should be. I'm looking forward to knowing where I'm headed without really knowing where I'll end up on an emotional level. Yikes, that's pretty vague. But at least there's a destination that isn't a whirlpool of Jameson and undecipherable text messages.
But seriously, how dope is this shelf?