When I think about the seven months that progressed before I finally left the states, I see it in my mind as an inverse bell curve. I started off on a total high from my mind being cracked open and the universe having rushed in, but then the worst depression of my life ensued.
All of December was filled with this bubbling excitement at the possibility of what I was signing up to do. For the first few weeks of December I had been thinking about this constantly, my brain (but more so my heart) wouldn’t stop swimming in visions of possibilities. By the end of December I had decided that this wasn’t some ridiculous, drug-induced pipe dream and that I really could make this happen so I told my closest few friends. To my half-hearted surprise, they were ecstatic about my loose but whimsical plan. They saw the wanderlust in me before I did and mirrored the gumption to follow through that I was thirsty to embody myself. As fate would have it, every one of my close girlfriends have many stamps in their passports, giving them the personal and intimate knowledge of what it’s like to travel across seas.
The dawn of a new year came with a beautiful shift of energy within me. To be frank, I always thought it was so cliche when people would say, “This is going to be my year.” That is, until I said it myself (doesn’t it usually happen as such?). Literally, the moment the clock ticked midnight on December 31st, 2016, a jolt ran through me and I felt a charge rush through my veins. But it wasn’t that I was claiming this year as my own; it was more so that 2017 had claimed me and I could either go with it or fight against it.
As January ticked on, the thrill of my possible adventure continued to swell within me. I began thinking about how I would break this to my clients. What I would do with all of my belongings. Where would I even start this epic tale. By the end of January, the fumes of my titilation transformed into black plumes of depression.
At the end of January I had returned home from a two week vacay to a disheveled and empty house. An opportunity for my ex to move out had finally arisen (reminder: after SEVEN MONTHS of surviving within the same small space, while being separated) and we had agreed that the move out would happen while I was out of town. There wasn’t a long drawn out process of the separation of things because I honestly didn’t want much since I knew I was going to be getting rid of everything in due time anyhow. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when I walked in and saw most of the belongings taken, but I didn’t expect the brutal jab that I returned to.
We shared three cats between us, two of them my step fur babies, and one we had adopted together (Chai). We had come to the agreement that I would hold onto Chai until I left the states, but my ex made the executive decision while I was away that it wouldn’t be a good idea to separate the three cats for those few months. Now, my higher self can agree with that, but my human self was devastated that my beloved Chai was taken from me without me even getting the chance to say goodbye.
Some of you may think, “Dude, it’s a cat, no biggie.” And if that’s your sentiment, then you clearly haven’t been the owner of one. Chai slept with me every single night of those awful 7 months. We played fetch. She climbed on my back like a billy goat and hung out around my neck like a travel pillow. She kept my heart light and I kept her well loved.
I felt my heart tear right down the middle that night that I returned home and for the following two months, that tear only deepened as waves of loss pounded against me.
I was taking care of all of the divorce proceedings myself as I began selling all of my things. I finally told my clients by the end of February and became the rightful container for their loss as well as my own. By mid-March I gave my teaching resignation and then held the loss for my students as well.
The nights were the worst. I referred to those dark hours as were wolfing; the metamorphosis felt similarly gruesome. My self-destructive habits as a teenager came out to play all over again, giving way to a, “WTF, I thought I had taken care of that shit years ago,” reaction. My mom summed up those nights perfectly with just one haunting sentence, “Every night you make yourself cozy in a grave.” And that I did until the beginning of April, when I moved in with her.