Cleaning house

Yah, that's right.  I'm blogging again when I should be packing.  There is no greater blogging motivation than having 10,000 other things that you should be doing.  Don't expect it to last.

So a few days ago, I was bitching and moaning about all of the things that I needed to do.  The act of packing up an entire household and moving being the primary target of said bitching.

But since then I've had a lightbulb moment.  A mental change in direction.  A eureka.

Moving is a golden opportunity to purge yourself of the past.

I don't think that there's a conscious element to this, but I realized that when I end relationships, I move.  Both of my last big moves were primarily the result of monetary decisions, but they also both coincided with the end of my last two major relationships...the Ex-Husband and the Boy.

Go figure.

"And the Boy?" you ask.  "Didn't he go away awhile ago?"

Interesting story that.  With a conclusion that brought me to my eureka.

Yes, we did break up.  I was frustrated and angry over a variety of issues.  I said things.  He said things.  I'll be the first to admit that I didn't handle it well.  Hindsight is 20/20 and if I had to do it again, I would definitely have tried issue resolution through communication rather than "get out".  "Get out" tends to leave scars.  No, really.  But I was angry.  I felt like I wasn't being heard.  I felt like I was never being heard.  I will always be sorry for that.

But then right before Christmas, we started the process of reconciliation.  We made plans to see each other.  We started to say "I love you" again.

And then the universe intervened and said "OHHELLNO!".

He cancelled his trip to see me because of a sick family member.  And then he came down with something himself and the trip was delayed indefinitely.

We started to argue again.  A lot.  I was hurt and angry.  He was hurt and angry.

Spring arrived and he had to go back to work.  He went to Florida and the texts and calls became few and far between.

I would get frustrated by what I perceived as a one-sided attempt to make things happen and would try to break the conversation off permanently.  To obtain some finality and some closure.  I don't cope well without closure.

Each time he would tell me that wasn't what he wanted, but he didn't have a solution either.

I offered to go to Florida.  I hadn't seen him since November.  He said what was the point.

I tried to put a stake in it again, and once again he balked.  He said again that wasn't what he wanted.  So I kept trying to continue the conversation.  I promised myself that while there was a chance that we could put it back together, I would keep trying.

I wish that I had put half this effort into the end of my marriage.  Maybe I wouldn't be paying alimony today.

A month ago he promised to call.  A day later he texted to say he couldn't call because he was sick and could he call when he felt better.  Sure, I said.

Two weeks later, I texted him to make sure he was still alive.  Yes, he said, but still sick.  He would give me a call.

A week later, irritated, I texted him again.  Still sick.

A week after that I threw a fit.  Not my finest moment, but I was feeling, obviously, like maybe I was being avoided.  I said I was done.  He said he would call.

And he did.  We had a decent heart-felt (I thought) conversation.  I laid it out.  Either we take the next step of continuing the conversation or we put this thing out of its misery.  It's not a tough choice.  You either want it or you don't.  He said he had to think about it.  He'd call me.

Huh?

He then successfully avoided and dodged for another 4 days.

And then I realized that I was being played.  And not even kinda played, I mean PLAAAAAAAYED.

I set myself up.  I'm such a fucking idiot.  I've seen "He's Just Not That Into You", after all.  I should have known better.

I'm so stupid.

Semi-fearing that if he did actually call, it would be, say, during my grandfather's funeral or while trying to help my father grieve, I told him I was done...out.  I told him that he won.

And he did.  He never ever has to hear from me again.  And he inflicted maximum pain in the process.

I have to admire a well-played hand when I see it.

But back to moving.  Moving sucks.  But moving is also an opportunity to clean house.  And I mean in the metaphorical sense...in case you were thinking that I was actually referring to cleaning behind the toilet.  A task which I have obligingly hired out.

There is a cathartic element to removing all traces of your past while you pack.  Instead of packing the cute teddy bears and other remaining gifts from a painful past, you, say, shove said gifts down the trash chute.  I totally recommend this.  It's awesome.

So this week, I will bury my grandfather and end one era of my life.  My grandfather was occasionally a sonofabitch, but was mostly a really good man.

This week I will also move into a new place, and leave behind me another era of my life.  The Boy was also occasionally a sonofabitch, but was also mostly a really good man.  And an excellent player.

And this week I will also allow myself to move on.  I think I need to find a good man, settle down, and maybe get married again.  I realize this may take awhile, but I'm not in a hurry.

I need somebody who's in it for the long haul.  I don't want to move again.