…More Than Sweet Potatoes

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Monday is a day of lasts.

[If you’re anything like I was in school, you counted down to when things were ending/starting.  We would count how many more “wake ups” there were until spring break, winter break, the end of school.  Similarly, I can recall doing the same thing during my senior year we’d point out everything we were doing for the last time.  Last first day of school.  Last winter break.  Last Monday.]

Monday will be my last Monday at work.

It will be my last morning in my apartment.

[I spent a lot of the last two weeks selling my furniture, packing up my place room by room, throwing away a LOT of things – turns out, I’m really not that sentimental about things, and shipping boxes to my parents in Arizona.]

Once the last of my furniture was taken away, I found myself laying on my back in the middle of what was once my living room, staring up at the ceiling while a few tears fell down the sides of my face into my ears.


Just leave me here.

I don’t know that I would say I am sad.  Something is ending.  Change is coming.  It’s emotional.

[Years back, a boyfriend (at the time) and I were in the middle of a break up.  We both knew it was the right thing to do and it was the right time, but I cried.  Maybe we both cried.  We had consciously decided to end something and start something different.  Something apart from one another.  It was, rightfully, emotional.  It’s sad when something ends.]

So I guess I am sad.  I’m sad something is ending.

I don’t know which part of this is making it sad for me.  I guess it is a combination of all these little things.  It’s as though each part of it is like plucking a guitar string inside of me and when enough are plucked simultaneously and/or in succession, it’s playing like a sad song.

There are people who have gone out of their way to include me in their friend circle.  There’s the first person to bring me around her friends in the hopes I would find a circle of my own.  There’s the person who had never met me and still wanted me to live with her.  There’s the group of girls who let me pretend to be one of them.

There’s the apartment where I first lived all by myself.  Where I became an independent adult both financially and emotionally.

There’s the job I haven’t yet hated.  Not even for one day.

There’s the ocean where I ride my bike to watch the sunrise.  Where I’ve sat with a glass of wine and watched the waves illuminated by the full moon.

There’s the “neighborhood” bar where I’ve made a name for myself.  And the much closer neighborhood restaurant/bar where I’ve become friends with the staff who wished me farewell the last time I ate there.

It’s a combination of lasts.  A combination of memories.  A combination of changes.

And then there’s the fact that I don’t actually like change…

[A couple months ago my Kindle broke.  I had one of the first generation Kindles; the one with a keyboard at the bottom, and I loved it.  I was about to get on a plane a couple days later and wanted a replacement one immediately.  When I called Amazon, I found out that they no longer make that Kindle.  So I decided to buy myself a new Kindle.  The Kindle Fire.  I bought it, used it for my trip, and immediately returned it.  It was too different.  It had too much stuff.  It felt too big in my hands.  I hated it.  Then I went on Amazon and ordered a used one that was exactly like my original one.  And I’m happy.]


I love this thing…

While moving boxes and suitcases out to my car earlier, I had set my phone down on the edge of my trunk.  I realized I had space for another couple of bags, so I ran upstairs to get them.  A few minutes later when I went to reach for my phone, I realized it was gone.  After crying because things just seem to be spiraling out of control – according to the emotional wreck inside of me – I went to go buy a replacement phone.  I wanted the same one.  Apparently it is no longer sold, so I had to get the “upgrade.”  I’ll get used to it, I suppose, but it’s too big in my hands, it does too much and it’s very different… to me.

All of this is to say that I’m a mess, but I’m holding it together.
I’m the captain of this ship.  I’m not shipwrecked, I’m just changing paths.

Please consider any disjointedness you feel as you read this post to be an empathetic moment for you; a glimpse into my brain and how it feels to be me right now.  Thank you.

One comment on “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

  1. markbialczak
    August 31, 2015

    Yes, this is sad and it’s scary, Deb. But think of all of the new firsts that await. Many of them, unfamiliar at first, you’ll find will fit your hand just fine. I’m with you in spirit on this big journey.


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This entry was posted on August 31, 2015 by in 2015, emotional, Emotions, Moving.
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