The ten-day notice I’ve been dreading all month (knowing we couldn’t scrape enough rent together) was finally taped to our door today. At least ten days ago, I packed everything up into bags and was preparing to flee after getting rid of everything I couldn’t take with me. When the notice didn’t come right away, I relaxed just a little bit, knowing full well it’s still due. Naturally, I’ve been torturing myself with masochistic food selections in the mean time.
I now face the monumental feat of forwarding mail without ID that has my current address on it, disconnecting services here, getting rid of every piece of furniture and ceramic flatware I presently own, stashing what I can’t part with but can’t afford to truck around behind me everywhere I go (I estimate this will all be in at least three different places), and getting myself out of here, all before the ten days are up. The very last thing I want to be faced with is a police escort to remove me at 10 a.m. the day they come to change the locks.
I gave my birds to a new home last week. They were all singing when the woman came to retrieve them and take them back to a safe temporary home. After an initial fit, they completely calmed down as soon as the last one was in the cage. She asked me why I had to get rid of them while I was signing the papers, and I managed to maintain my composure until the moment the car door closed with my cockatiel perched inside on the passenger seat in her own cage (she was always a princess). The sound of the car door closing spontaneously triggered a well of grief to surface within me.
But now is the time I have to put my grief aside — one of the few times I am thankful for being dissociative. I have to keep moving, keep packing, and keep planning. There’s no time to stop and grieve.