It feels like I’ve moved every year or two since 2012.
It’s been exhausting. Most of what I own is books– the books have moved with me every where I’ve gone. I don’t regret that– in my life books have always seemed more reliable than people. They provide emotional support and the stuff of humanity when I have been too isolated, vulnerable or frightened to interact with *real* humans. Books are kind.
Books are heavy, though.
I’m moving again.
I’m tired of living in the geographic dead space where the life I shared with my family used to be.
I’m tired of hiding where I live from them.
I’m tired of wondering if the neighbors are going to take exception to my existence again.
I’m tired of wondering if my mom was the one who sicced them on me.
I’m tired of wondering if my mom and her strategic gossip was the reason I lost all my clients, twice.
I’m tired of wondering if the jerk (co-worker) who harassed me at work (which incident the boss tried to make non-existent twice) is poisoning the ravenous-insecure fat front desk girls against me by flattering and flirting with them, and working them up against me.
This is important, because they’re the ones booking clients and making or *accidentally not* making confirmation calls and handling tips.
If I just only try to make friends with the girls at work, of course, this will be interpreted as flirting and flirting interpreted as some kind of sexy ultimate evil omen of doom that they can cluck about for weeks to make their shit boring lives seem exciting and important.
If I try to make friends with the boys, they, apparently, decide this means it’s open season to harass me.
And the girls militate against me as “competition”.
But the boys can flirt with them. Even creepy assholes. That’s totally cool.
And the gay dude throws me under the bus over his idiot straight boy crush on the little sociopath who flirts with him and then, as soon as he’s out of hearing, tries to turn the others against him.
I sort of hate people right now. All people. I know it’s not fair, but I’m so tired.
I laugh hysterically, deep down inside, when I overhear my boss wondering why he can’t keep therapists working at his clinic.
Books are good friends.
Books are lighter to carry than the weight of human indifference.
I’m moving again next week. Not between apartments.
Between cities. Between regions.
I will miss this area. I will miss the trees and the quiet water and the humble tangled groves and the wide sunrises and sunsets on ploughed fields. I will miss the past sewn into every angle of the ground and weather like blue stitches in a childhood quilt.
I will miss my home.
I won’t miss living here.
Wish me luck.