Days til moving: 0


I’m hoping this will be a brief post, as I’m very tired from a killer going away party I had with my friends yesterday.

Tonight, I will pack up my last box, purse, and turtles, and hop in a car. I will drive to my grandparents’, sleep there, and when I wake up, I will drive across the province. I will say goodbye to everything I know and neatly pack up my old life in a box. I might return to that old life, but I might lose the box. My checklist says I’m mostly done. According to my scribbly scrawl, I still have to call my old job’s union for retro pay, grab my memory stick from the television, charge all my electronics, and pack up all my pills, vitamins, and toiletries. According to this nice little list, I’m ready to go.

I don’t know if I’m ready.

If you asked me two months ago if I was ready for school, I’d say “hell yeah!” and complain that I was ready to get up and go. If you ask me this now, I will nervously smile and chuckle. I keep finding things to do. Little things, like “I can’t move yet! I haven’t had anything from so many local restaurants!” or big things, like “I haven’t found a job in Toronto yet”. I try to convince myself that I should stay in my comfort zone, and I know that I have to go. My home has nothing left to offer me, nor this city. I have to move on, but it’ll be very hard. It’s pretty scary! I have no family in Toronto. I’ve always been incredibly close to my mother, and to just up and leave seems absurd. I have no friends in Toronto. I will, but it’ll be hard at first. Worse of all, it’s change. Change is a dirty word to me, unless you’re slipping me lunch money or talking about clothes. I hate change. I find comfort in regularity, in waking up every morning knowing what the day will bring me. My days, months, years, my life is a constant ebb and flow. T.S Eliot sums this up in my favourite poem, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”:

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
And it is true. My day is measured out in little chunks, hours carved into my schedule that dictate how my life proceeds. Change has always been hard on me. I hated high school probably the most. It is so different than elementary! I refused to talk to anyone for nearly a year. I threw myself in my studies, and slept. I was never happy in my first year. I eventually got kind of used to it, then I graduated it. I tell myself I have to adjust quicker, because the same thing happens every semester. My classes change and I hate everything. I lock myself up for a week or two, then force myself to be okay again. I fear this will happen again when I leave, but much, much worse.
So I pull out an old, crumpled paper I wrote many months ago. The title, written strangely enough in pencil, is fading.
Reasons to go to Glendon/out of town
1. Get to visit my boyfriend more often. This is true. I’ll see him a few times a month, maybe more to help with my turtles. After 3 years of long distance dating, it’d be nice to visit more than twice a year.
2. I hate most of my graduating class. I angrily frown and get a bitter taste in my mouth whenever I read it. I don’t have a lot of good memories with them.
3. Looks better than the local university! That is very true, and I remind myself that it’ll look pretty on my resume and I’ll be in a school focused on my own major, NOT forestry.
4. I get more freedom. I love my family, but we drive each other up the wall. My brother and I are especially fun to witness fight. Still, I’ll miss…. most…. of my family.
5. I learn to be independent. That is self explanatory. I think I’m decently independent, but I’ll probably learn that I’m not very soon enough.
I’m sure there are more, wore off by constant folding and unfolding. Those, however, are the main points, other than the main points of liking the school. 
It’s almost 2:30 in the morning here, and I can feel my eyelids growing heavy. I know I’ll be okay in the end, but until then, I fret over moving.
tl;dr I worry about moving, thinking that I’ll choke up in fear and lock myself up as I usually do. I feel sad about leaving my new home.