...

I've been packing up my room for the first time in ten years recently. Luckily I have help from my love, but it's surreal. As a child I moved every few years, and the longest I've ever lived somewhere is where I am now. But still. It's an undertaking, one I'm not used to anymore.

I used to be able to pack and move so quickly. It was a simple matter of the fact that I just didn't have...things? Sure, I had toys and things that any kid would have. But I didn't amass them. I still don't, there's no reason to. But not moving, I didn't have to clean so fastidiously. Now I do, and it's going well, but I can fit pretty much the whole of my life in six boxes (so far). Is that sad? Is that too many boxes? I don't really know. I don't think I'm supposed to know?

It's probably whatever the amount of boxes I end up with is the correct one. Still, I wish packing was a little easier. I don't like going through my old stuff and trying to figure out if it's worth taking with me, worth lugging it up and down flights of stairs, or never seeing it again? I don't plan on maintaining contact with my family. I doubt anything I leave behind will ever be in my hands again.

It makes me sad, but that's a whole different beast entirely. I do wonder if my mother will hold it against me. If I'll get some text that says "Hope you know I've given your dogs to a shelter." I wouldn't put it past her. She's always used my love of animals against me. As a leverage point. Either that, or she'll text or call me every single day. Trying to demand information about why I won't talk to her. What she did wrong as a mother. Maybe that'll be my next post.