Okay, I’m living in Portland.
I’m also kind of quietly freaking out. If you know me, you should know that when I say “kind of,” I really mean “totally.”
It has to do with the whole never having lived so far from my folks before. Right now, it’s feeling like the second and third days of camp when you’re ten years old. That’ll soon change, of course. I mean, I start school tomorrow. I suppose that’s another stressor right there.
I’ve got a few friends in town, so I need to hit them up soon, after I get a bit more settled.
And that’s another thing–I’ll feel much better once my things arrive. At the moment, the only furniture I have is an inflatable mattress. Once my sofa is here, and my dishes, and my bed, and my books, and my shelves, and my DVDs, and the rest of my clothes… I’ll feel better. My art is here (I brought it up myself), but I don’t want to hang it until I know exactly where the bookshelves will go. Oh, and oh my god, the move cost so much more than the original estimate! They don’t account for book weight in the estimate averages, the bastards. Still… if everything gets here safely and unbroken, I’ll chalk it up as money well-spent. (Honestly, I’m terrified that my dishes won’t make it.)
I miss my mom, and I feel guilty about leaving to be so far away. I know that it’s necessary for my long-term goals, sanity, and happiness, but I still feel horrible about it. She’s awesome, you know. I bought her an iPad, because it’s the easiest-to-use computer I could get her, just so that we’d be able to video chat. Yeah–I’m a grown-ass man, and I am kind of a mama’s boy.
But I’m in Portland, taking on the next stage of my life. As I keep reminding myself–and having my friends remind me–I’m here expressly because I decided to be. I made the plans, committed to them, and am following them. They’re good plans, plans that will take me to where I want to be.
And a little terror along the way is just the toll of the road.