Last night I went back to the tiny home to get the last of my stuff. I didn't have much left. Just some clothes that I managed to fit into one suitcase, a few plants that were almost dead anyways, my crystal collection, some important files, and a few other random tidbits.
But guys, it was tough. More so than I ever thought it would be.
Driving through the neighborhood that I once called home was tough. Driving down the familiar streets that I biked almost every single day was tough. Pulling into the gravel driveway in the spot we usually parked our car was tough. Walking through the tall grass up to the door of the house that I built, was tough. Seeing my cat for the first time in what feels like months, was tough. But sitting on the floor, the ones that I installed, looking around at everything I had worked so hard to create and knowing I had to leave it all behind, was the toughest.
I had a lot more stuff in there than I thought. But the thing is, most of it I couldn't even take with me.
The last months of building the tiny home, I spent a lot of the time working by myself. Most of the cosmetics on the interior, I completed almost single-handedly. So when I walk in and look around, I see the walls that I spent hours on floating and sanding and texturing and painting. I see the cabinets that I built by myself, the concrete counters that I spent so much time perfecting. I see all the shelving that I installed, the table that I build, the ladder that I thought up and brought to life. I see the floors, which came from my mom's house, that I nailed in while listening to Jeff's talk show the few days after he died. I remember spending hours putting up the tile, gifted from my step-dad, in my bathroom while internally dealing with the fact that my best friend was moving across the country and I was absolutely heartbroken about it. I remember trying to put all the gosh darn wood flooring on my ceiling and how much of a pain in the butt it was. And all of the art that we had collected together to make it's home on our walls. I can't take any of that with me. And while I was sitting there, being flooded with all of these memories and feeling the pang in my chest for all of the things I had to leave behind, I was so sad.
Sadder than I wanted to be.
But I stayed a bit longer, as I gathered my belongings and slowly walked around looking for anything I might have been forgetting, and then I remembered why I left in the first place. It didn't take long for the feelings of claustrophobia (not the physical kind) and helplessness and this looming sense of despair to creep back into my conscious. The place oozed with it. And maybe it was just me. Maybe it was just an emotional response to a place that I began to resent because of the situation I made it out to be and now I just can't see it as anything else. Maybe it's all just me. But I knew I couldn't get sucked into that again.
So I left. Again. And I chose to be grateful for all of the beautiful things in my life right now. I absolutely love where I am. There's no turning back now.