ask, and you shall receive
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So, we’re talking about moving in together in a few months. We’ve been talking about it in vague terms for the past several months already: “maybe next summer, if we’re still together, we’ll want to live together, and then I’d NEVER have to be mad about dishes piling up in the sink because you’re good at doing dishes!” and “if we’re living together, we’ll be paying less rent, so maybe I can afford to leave my job a few months early.” That sort of thing. And neither of us had really dared to bring it up in a serious way, until this past week, because, well, it’s kind of big and scary. And also vaguely far away. Someday. (Doesn’t summer always seem far away in the middle of winter?)
But the truth is, it’s not all that far away. I’ll know about grad school within a month, and I will probably leave my job by two months later, and will be starting graduate school (hopefully) within three months after that. And my calendar is filling up already for things happening in May, June. And it was when I realized that I’ll be in New York and Massachusetts for 2-3 weeks at the end of May/beginning of June for my college reunion and some family and friend visiting that I realized, um, yikes, maybe we’d better actually have that serious conversation about moving in together. Because I’m not going to be around for a large chunk of May, rendering a June move-in difficult, and she’ll be gone for part of July, and then we’re both travelling to her sister’s wedding in August, and then my classes start… which leaves May 1 and July 1 as our options, really, and for several reasons I won’t bore you with here, May 1 seems a better fit for me.
And, well, May 1 is kind of soon. Not omg-we-need-to-start-apartment-hunting soon. But soon. Omg-we-need-to-really-consider-what-we’re-getting-ourselves-into-and-are-we-ready-to-take-this-step-and-what-does-this-mean soon. I think we’re both simultaneously really fucking excited and really fucking scared. I feel a bit like how I feel about maybe leaving my job if I don’t get into grad school (and thus face immense uncertainty). It feels so right, and thinking about it makes me so happy and so excited, and when I really think about it I want to do it, like, tomorrow, but then I freeze up, like, but what if it doesn’t work? Things are fine the way they are, aren’t they? You’re not unhappy or anything, why tempt fate? It could be disastrous, what if you’re really not as ready as you think you are…
I don’t know, you know? I worry about some of my tendencies, and wonder whether really I need more time to work them out living separately before I’m surrounded by her and us all the time. I worry about my control-freak micro-managing ways; I worry about her messiness. I worry that those two things are a horrible combination, and wonder if the reason they work alright now is that we each have our own space and so I can be the boss of mine and she can be the boss of hers. I worry about my tendency towards co-dependency, and if I don’t have a space to call my own, will I lose track of my self? Will we be able to make space for our selves and for each other? I worry about being able to strike a comfortable balance of shared responsibility for our space, given my high attention to detail in household matters and her relative leniency. And, I don’t know, what if we lose the spark? What if we get boring, stop being interesting to each other? I’m afraid of taking each other and our time together for granted. I want it all to still be special.
And as I was writing all that there was the other little voice in my head saying “but! but! but!”, countering everything there with other (happier) thoughts. Like that if we can deal well with our current situation (and we do), then of course we’ll be able to handle living together, and in fact much of what’s hard now might (even probably will) be easier. Right now, though we each have our own individual space, we don’t have our own couple space. We can’t just come home from work and cook dinner and chill, read together, watch a movie while cuddling, then get distracted and start hooking up in the middle. We can’t do that because there are always roommates around. So in a way, our sexuality is quashed. Then, also, living out of two separate apartments is a drag, to say the least. I always have to be thinking a day or two ahead when I know I’ll be over there, and even though I generally have clothes over there, there are still shoes and makeup and computer and whatever my plans are the day after (burlesque? dinner with friends? show?) to be thinking of. And toting around. Cooking is harder to plan ahead for, and is more expensive, because we’re dealing with two pantries and two refrigerators.
Mostly, and maybe this is boring, but I don’t care if it is, mostly I just want to be able to spend time together not doing anything. I want to be able to come home late after an evening of being busy and have her there, working on her music, and I want to kiss her hello, throw some leftovers on the stove, and plop down on the sofa with a good book or some writing ideas and each do our own shit together, and then eventually get distracted by each other’s presence and fuck on the living room floor before crashing into bed and briefly sharing the highlights (or lowlights) of our days with each other as we drift off into snuggly slumber.
That’s what I want. I guess I’d like to take the leap of faith; we’ve done well so far with circumstances that aren’t always easy. Living together certainly won’t be easy either, I’m sure of it. We’re two people. There will always be conflict. It will be different conflict from what we have now, to be sure, but won’t that also be fun? Figuring out how to navigate a whole new set of situations? An adventure. In love.
Scary as fuck. But honestly, I think the thing I’m scared of most is that I’m less scared than she is. I want her to want this and believe in this as much as I do. What if she doesn’t? What would that mean?
I guess it’s probably time to have that conversation, yeah?

Dude, where’s the sun at? The Mission is supposed to be (a) the sunniest part of San Francisco, and (b) the warmest part of San Francisco. Since I’ve moved on Sunday, it’s been foggy and cold. Granted, it’s only been a day and a half, so I suppose I shouldn’t be making noise yet.
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Things with mi’lady are good, and I’ve been pretty stable since that last low-point earlier this month (see here, here, and here). I’m seeing a psychiatrist on Friday morning to hopefully start planning for some kind of drug cocktail. Haha, that sounds like I’m both a junkie and an alcoholic. (I’m neither, just fyi.) The truth is I know psychiatric medications are controversial. I know people scoff, people judge, people get on their soapboxes and preach about how all our children will be sterile, scaly mutants if we take anti-depressants. I’ve been there too, done that whole judging and scoffing thing, and I’m done now deciding for others what will work for them. It took me getting to a point where I realized, hey, I need help. And maybe drugs will help.
Because the thing is, I know this is chemical. I know that my bouts of severe depression are not about my emotions. They’re not about stuff happening in my life or my relationships or my work (though they can certainly be exacerbated by those things). They’re not banishable by just trying to be reasonable or do things that make me happier. They’re just really deep holes that are so deep I can’t tell that there actually is an opening at the top that the light shines through. I just need a ladder to get out of the hole. For me, I hope that medication can be part of that ladder. Psychotherapy too, and self-care, but I want to see if medications can be part of the mix. Because today, I’m doing alright. But next week? Who knows.

I’m in the throes of packing. It really must be said that I HATE PACKING. I hate it with a deep, profound loathing. Something about it just seems so… inefficient. Because as soon as I get there? (there being only a half an hour away) I’M JUST GOING TO HAVE TO UNPACK EVERYTHING AGAIN. I’m putting my entire life in boxes, only to know that in less than 24 hours, I will already be taking it all out again. I wish there were a way to just, I don’t know, do a “select all” of my entire house, and then just cut&paste into the new place. THAT would be efficient.
So now I’m procrastinating.
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Mi’lady is home! She returned Thursday evening; I met her at the airport. We slept at her house that night. Or rather, she slept; I had an early-morning EEG, which I was forbidden from sleeping before. I guess brain abnormalities are more pronounced on lack of sleep. So I took Friday off of work and went back to her house to nap. She didn’t go to work either on Friday, since she’d gotten home so late the night before. So she worked from home, I slept, and it was just really nice. I mean, it wasn’t nice that I had to stay up all night Thursday, and it wasn’t nice that they forced me into seizure during my EEG, and it wasn’t nice that I felt so crappy all day yesterday, but it was nice to be back with mi’lady, and she was really sweet to me all Thursday night and Friday. The distance was good for us — as I wrote earlier in the week, a little bit of space helps to affirm a relationship. It gave me the time to realize I am, in fact, still me, still an individual, so I can go back to our relationship feeling just plain happy to be with her. Now I just have to be careful to maintain that — and not slip back into feeling like an alloy.
***
Okay, packing. So far packed:
bathroom
living room
spare bedroom
most of my bedroom (minus things I need tonight, computer stuff, and lamps)
shoes
Still need to pack:
clothes
kitchen
The kitchen’s going to be the bitch. Sigh.

It’s night, and the foghorns are sounding. I’m going to miss that about living out here, right next to the ocean — the constant reminder that my world ends, right here, I’m right on the edge. Just beyond my bedroom window begins the world of the sea, unknowable to me. Often when I look out my window, I see massive barges pushing their way solidly across the horizon towards the Golden Gate Bridge. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be crew on one of those barges. It’s just a life that’s unfathomable to me. I don’t mean I can’t fathom that other people do it. I can’t fathom doing it myself. I just have no idea where to begin imagining what it’s like. So it’s liberating to live out here, in a way. Just a look out my window and I’m confronted with the finiteness of my daily life. It’s a relief. The significance of my life has a visible boundary. I need that. It keeps me feeling whole.
The ocean is my spirit animal.
So, while I’m really boundlessly excited about moving to the Mission, hearing the foghorns bleat their warnings out to sea does render me a bit (preemptively) nostalgic. I’ll miss this place.
Moving on.

I’m moving on Sunday (just across the city) so I’m trying to eat up all the food I have already rather than buying new food, so that I don’t have to end up just moving it. This is proving to require a hefty amount of creativity, given that these are the current contents of my refrigerator:
- two dozen eggs (I have no idea how they all got there)
- pickles
- feta cheese
- lemonade
- two yellow onions
- a grapefruit
- four different kinds of mustard (dijon, horseradish, tarragon, and plain yellow)
- sriracha
- sour cream
- frozen blueberries
- Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream
- Thai peanut sauce
- half a can of tomato paste
- lemon curd
Any ideas? Tonight I used up half an onion, my frozen spinach, two eggs, and the end of a block of cheddar cheese and made an omelette. That was about the last normal thing I think it’s possible to make based on what I’ve got left. I may be conducting some hazardous experiments involving a blender over the next several days…
***
Speaking of moving, yay! I’m moving! My new flat, although smaller, comes equipped with a washer/dryer, a cute little deck, an awesome neighborhood, a mere 15-20 minute commute to work, and an adorable British Indian (via Paris) chain-smoking roommate who claims she’s an alien sent down from outer space to record the human experience in downtempo spoken word trip hop. I kid not. She may be a bit eccentric, but at the very least she has a British accent, which counts for a lot.
***
Also, things are quite good in the lady department. She called last night, a bit drunk, and a bit teary (it’s that time of the month…), and bubbled over with worry that I was going to break up with her for moving to Oakland. It made me realize that I’ve been kind of a huge whore about the Oakland thing. She’s moving at the end of the summer to live with her band, and I haven’t been that happy about it because, well, she’ll be leaving the city. Oakland’s not far, it’s just across the Bay, but still… LEAVING the CITY! Who would want to leave San Francisco? Oakland is so far out of my realm of daily experience that it seems very, very far, and I’ve been apprehensive that her moving there will be a strain on our relationship.
But I realized last night that, while I’ve been trying really hard to be supportive of it, my stress about it hasn’t escape mi’lady. And it’s making her anxious. And that isn’t okay. I really want her to be happy, and if she’ll be happy by moving in with her band, then I think she should do it! I actually really do think she should do it. And so I just decided I’m not going to worry. Once she’s moved there, after all, Oakland will enter the realm of my daily experience, just by virtue of her being there. And it will work out. It will work out just fine. It will work out much better if she does move there than if she doesn’t and is unhappy about it. So I made the decision to let it go, and I have. I let it go.
Also, she’s just so cute when she’s drunk and weepy and tired that it just about melts my heart.

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