My sister-in-law moved last year. She needed a change. A new start.
So she picked her place and she packed up her kids, and she moved. To a totally new place. Yes, she has a cousin nearby. But other than that – new town, new school,
new job, new friends, new routine. All
new. But she found her happy place, and
I couldn't be more happy for her.
I find that move alternately fantastic and terrifying.
In a few months, my other sister-in-law is relocating
too. Hundreds of miles away. It’s a good thing. She’s happier than I have ever seen her. But still.
Just packing up and moving to a brand new place. New job, new schools, new friends, new life. Scary.
And thrilling.
I can’t imagine packing up everything and moving to a new
place hundreds of miles away. Starting
over. Leaving family and friends
behind. It scares the shit out of
me.
Yet at the same time, I would love to do it. Just once. Maybe.
When I was pregnant, the possibility arose that POF might
have to relocate to Austin for his job.
We could have done that. Could
have moved. Started over. New everything.
But I couldn't. Because
I can’t leave this place. I am tied here
by family and friends. Things I don’t
want to leave. Can’t leave. At least not yet.
Sometimes, like this morning, I think about it. I imagine what it would have been like, to
pack up and move to Austin. I imagine
what our lives might be like now. Would
we be better off financially, or struggling in a strange place on our own? Would the kid love school as much as he does
now, or would he hate it? What kind of job would I have? Would we have made new
friends? How often would we come back here to visit, or would friends/family
come visit us?
But then I think about all the other things that keep me
here. Wanting my kid to have his grandparents
close by. My friends close by. My whole
life, my grandparents’ house was the one constant, my security, my safe
place. I want that for my kid. For his kids.
I am in a constant state of conflict. About so many
things. Wanting to be carefree and able
to pack up and move, yet feeling rooted and stuck to this place. Wanting to have adventures, yet being
terrified of the unknown. Wanting to be the girl who can go out on a moment’s
notice, to somewhere unfamiliar, and be comfortable in a crowd, make friends
easily, enjoy myself. But knowing that if I could be convinced to go, I would
be hiding in a corner, avoiding eye contact and conversation, counting the
minutes till I could escape.
I stop writing.
Re-read what I have written above.
And suddenly, there are tears. I’m not sure what they are for. Am I
crying because I feel sad for that girl that longs to be free and fun-loving
and social but just … can’t? I don’t
think so. I know who I am. Most of the
time I am comfortable with it. So why
the tears? I’m not sure.
Maybe for the dream version of me. For what could have
been. Or might have been. Or never will be. For that adventure into a new place, leaving
everything I know behind. For the part
of me that wants it. For the part of me
that is terrified by the thought of it.
For the part of me that knows it will probably never happen.
I will always be here.
Stuck. Rooted. The same.
Safe. Comfortable. Home.
