At one week, I managed to give myself a break. It’s one week, I’ll catch up soon.
Then one week became two, and three, and so on.
I felt so good about having posted here for several consecutive weeks, so each new date missed made me feel more and more guilty.
Let’s be honest: it’s no big deal.
My life has been swallowed by the move I’d been planning for months. There were boxes to pack, installations and deliveries to schedule, furniture to be selected. I grew more irritable. I hated being at work, and I could barely force myself to meet deadlines for my writer’s group.
The big day went by fairly smoothly thanks to the help of some friends. Over a dozen boxes of stuff, then over a dozen boxes of furniture to assemble. I had given myself a long weekend, knowing I’d need the time, and even so I ended up having a meltdown by the third night.
Months of stress should have ended once we moved into our new apartment, right? Right?!
My foolish brain, which could only focus on immediate goals, failed to clue in to the fact that the move was merely a step; there was (is) still lots to do, and that is (was) okay. It took us days to find the remote. My books are not completely unpacked. We are still a few chairs short of a set (cue rimshot).
So what if the writing and the blog have taken a bit of a backseat to life? This is an important time, I need to be in this moment and carve out time and space to relax. It is essential that I move at my own pace. Maybe someday I’ll put this into a story and laugh at how overwhelming the experience has been.
In the meantime, I’m doing my best to feel at home and slowly regain my previous rhythm. More on that next week.