Sometimes life is weird.
Like when you realize you’ve turned your blog into the hub for all things related to animal feces, or when cleaning your house makes you cry.
I wish I could say that neither of those things has happened to me, but they both totally have.
Google is probably at fault for the animal feces thing, which is unfortunate but I can’t do much about my blog becoming the hub for white flakes inside of dog poop after I blogged about that sort of thing. That’s just how Google works, you publish something and Google finds it and links everyone in the world to it. But.. I guess that’s really my fault because I published. Not Google.
I suppose it’s time to address the other elephant in the room, so to speak.
Look Ma, literary clichés.
That’s right, cleaning my house made me cry today. I didn’t tell anyone because I felt ashamed by it. I’ve blogged about feeling vulnerable before, about how I imagine how I want to be and then try to make everyone think I am like that. I take inspiration from those around me. Talking about my own emotions is like admitting that I am not who I want you to think I am. I’m not perfect. I need to be perfect, but I am not.
Cleaning the house today, I felt a certain finality to everything. Putting things away felt sad. As I put everything in its home, I couldn’t help but think that in a few weeks I’m being taken out of my home. Taken out of everything I’ve ever known, and thrown into a world where I won’t fit. A world that won’t want me.
As I vacuumed the carpet, I took note of the imperfections. The stains. A large one by the door from foot traffic. Random splotches in the living room, no doubt from the dog. The dried paint from the previous tenant. All of it felt familiar. Safe. As I sprayed the carpet cleaner by the door, I wasn’t just scrubbing away a stain — I was scrubbing away a part of my life. That stain wasn’t all of me, but it was at least a small part of me. It’s gone now, and soon everything else will be gone too.
It’s almost like I’m cleaning myself out of my own home. I’m taking my things with me, but I’m not taking my home.
When people ask me if I’m busy or if I have plans, I can safely say no almost every time. I like to feign indifference. Like I don’t mind that I don’t have plans. ”Oh, we never make plans, we’re always free.” The truth is, I’m not indifferent — I’m terrified. Terrified of the world, of other people. In my home I am safe from the world, from other people. In a few weeks, I’m leaving my home.
I’d like to say that I’ve come a long away from being that faggy nerd you knew in high school. Or the kid trying to be an adult too fast who would sometimes go hungry because he was afraid to go eat alone in the college cafeteria — too awkward, too anxious to brave the crowds alone. I’m still that person, that faggy nerd, that anxiety ridden kid who couldn’t eat alone. I’ve spent my life hiding from people and now my hiding place is being taken away.
Everybody keeps saying how it’s going to be a good thing, and I smile and nod but underneath my false bravery is a small person watching his world fall apart. Soon, he is going to watch movers come in and pack up his things, he is going to get into a car and drive across the country. Each tiny mile a little bit further from everything and everyone he loves. Every tree, every bush, every cow, every yellow dashed line just a little bit further than the reality he is quickly losing his grip on.
He is just going to keep pretending he knows what he is doing, and would like everyone else to do the same.