In the last year, I have moved three times: one in October, when I moved out of my apartment in Lunenburg to share an apartment with my boyfriend; once in March, when I moved all my things from my studio in Lunenburg into aforementioned apartment (which started to look really, really full), and then just last week, when I moved the majority of my things into storage and the “essentials” (bed, clothing, stereo, printer) into the basement of my good friend Melissa’s house.
Moving is great, in a sense. It gives you a chance to take stock of your life and throw out the things that aren’t important anymore (many of which never were in the first place). It gives you a clean slate, an opportunity to redefine your life according to your own whims.
But I am just so tired of starting over, I want to curl up into a ball and never leave. It’s exhausting. I’ve been dreaming about moving every night for the past two weeks (last night actually took an unusual turn and instead featured me driving along in my car and hitting terrified-looking people, so now I’m a little paranoid about driving). Most of my belongings are in boxes, my work has been erratic, and though I feel like I’m coming to a better place, mentally speaking, I’m still inherently confused about what I’m doing and what I want to be doing.
I’ve been working with a business coach through this programme she does: a bit of a marketing overhaul for small businesses. It’s been great, but I got totally stumped when she sent me a set of “focusing” questions to answer. The first, of course, was “What do you want?
I’ve been mulling it over for the past month or so, and I’m still no closer to discovering an answer. I really wanted to live in a bus as a gypsy for a while. I’ve considered starting a new business, I’ve been analyzing my own business for areas to change, and I’ve contemplated (and am still contemplating!) a few actual employment positions. I’ve been thinking about moving to Montreal, to Wolfville, to the UK, to Mexico. Every time I think I’ve hit on solid ground, the tide comes in and washes it all away, and I’m left floating again.
I know I’m only twenty-four, and it isn’t the End of Everything that I haven’t figured this out yet. I just wish I had some cosmic sign, something, anything, that’d let me know what on earth I want.