Moving on from moving day

After a very long few weeks, all of my things are in one house — and as with the theme of the previous events of this move, nothing the entire day went as planned.

First off, I want to say that my husband and I are very lucky to have families willing to help us. Not only did my father-in-law and brother-in-law spend about twelve hours traipsing all over two counties and lifting lots of heavy boxes for us, but my family kept dropping off hand-me-downs and food for us.

My day started with me wanting to throw pillows at my husbands head. Perhaps I’d fill them with rocks first. I go back and forth on that at times. The night before he left after dinner to hang out with some friends (who wanted to see him before he left for Utah) and didn’t come back until 8 am the next day…when I had scheduled our moving day to begin at noon. It’s not too much of a secret that I’m a stickler for organization and planning — a fact that is laughable to anyone who knows my husband and I as a couple due to him running twenty minutes late as a rule and refuses to plan more than three days in advance.

So my husband comes in only four hours before we’re starting the huge process of moving day without a wink of sleep. Yet, somehow, he was more energetic than the man who rented us our U-haul. This poor fellow needed reading glasses and a typing class. To state the obvious, we had a late start.

Our first destination was the house the Douchelord double-crossed us with. And, of course, the Lord and Lady both made an appearance. Although they didn’t talk to me (they knew better…they fear me…I’m fearsome…I’m terror wrapped in a sugar coating), seeing them again made me so angry that I wanted to cry. How they handled the situation, from the start to the end, was not only unprofessional but disrespectful and manipulative. I haven’t even mentioned that they’ve been bad mouthing us to other people in real estate. The person who rents to our friend went on and on about an exaggerated version of the story where we’re painted as the villains who trashed our rental home. Not only were there already damages from dogs before we moved in, but I keep a very clean home. I haven’t been so insulted in a very long time!

Things only got worse as I headed down to the basement where our things were. Literally, as I headed down I fell and hurt my ankle. Once I was down there, I saw that some of our things had been tossed around. I’m not done unpacking yet, so I’m still concerned that some things were broken. More disrespect from them isn’t a real shock. And then I fell again and hurt the other ankle. And then I hurt my wrist because I was too absent minded and overwhelmed when taking off that day to remember to put on my wrist brace. I’m supposed to wear one anytime I’m doing any heavy lifting or anything that would put strain on my carpals because a couple years ago I dislocated my thumb and it loves to pop out randomly at times. Off to a good start, am I right?

However, as we moved the last box out and locked the door behind us it was as if we were locking the door on the Douchelords. We were done with them and wouldn’t have any need to interact with them ever again.

On to location number two: our friends’ basement. We headed down to our things (I didn’t fall in mud this time!) and I almost broke down in tears right there. At some point after Mister left their house that morning, the rain — did I mention it was raining on our moving day too? — caused the basement to flood. Water puddled right under our boxes. When I saw that, all I imagined was everything soaking wet and ruined despite it only being a few hours. Luckily, my husband had the foresight to do what he could to stack as many of the plastic bins on the bottom and try to keep the cardboard boxes piled on top. Only three cardboard boxes were wet, one had paintings and the other dry foods like rice and flour as well as some kitchen appliances. The paintings we’ve been able to look at and are, shockingly, perfectly fine. The kitchen things have all been transferred out of the wet box and into plastic bins, but I haven’t had a chance to check the food or see if the appliances still work. The third box was full of random things (obviously packed towards the very end of our thirty day notice) and, like the paintings, everything was okay.

However, at the time all I could see was every single item sopping wet with water. It was in that moment that I hit my breaking point. We were so close to the finish line, yet I slipped back into the despair that the previous couple of months had continued to wash me in like waves bashing rocks into sand.

My husband, seeing that I was blind to anything happening around me, knew that I would no longer be any good at moving things out of the basement. He sent me home with a car full of breakables and told me to start unpacking it and preparing for the flood of boxes.

Despite being in a significant amount of physical and emotional pain, the day finally hit a plateau there, no longer getting any worse but also not getting any better. It became a blur of the guys unloading not one, but two, loads out of the fifteen foot U-haul plus additional items in my father-in-law’s truck. Although I had my three cats safely closed into our large closet, I kept trying to cat proof our front rooms as we went so I could release the hounds — I mean, fluffs — as soon as we loaded in the last box.

Then it finally happened. The last box came in the house. The last piece of furniture (although it fought us) was brought it. The cats were released and appeased. The U-haul was returned.

All the horrible things that happened to us in the past couple months had come to a close. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. No, I’m not sure if I believe it but I’m trying to revive my positive voice.

It may still need a bit more resuscitation but I’m getting there.

Now to unpack the boxes that are stacked to my ceiling while my husband is across the country for a month. Oh, goodness. I need alcohol.


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