So, I completely moved out of my apartment today.
My dad and I took out two full car loads of things to the storage unit starting around eleven. We got back to my parent’s house, I ate a chicken sandwich, grabbed Shiloh. We picked up Jake, packed my car as full as it would get, filled the car up with gas, headed back. Daddy took his car, Jake drove mine, and I borrowed my neighbors van. We loaded everything completely full and drove the cars to the storage unit. My dad went back to the house, the boys and I went back to the apartment for our last trip. They messed around a lot, but we eventually got everything packed up. And I vacuumed all the floors with carpet cleaner and took out all the trash. After dropping everything off at the storage unit, I took my neighbor’s van back. We picked up pizza as a reward and dropped Jake off at his house, unloaded the rest of my car and ate.
So, I’m officially moved out of my apartment and into my parent’s house.
Which is horrifically depressing..
I mean, when I moved out of my parent’s house the first time to Texas I figured that was it, I was free. Then after I had to move back because I was pregnant, I thought I at least had a good reason and could get out of there soon. So when I moved out this time I was for sure this was it, I was good. And now I’m moving back to my parent’s house. Again. And it sucks. Really, terribly sucks.
I already feel trapped (and I haven’t even unpacked half my boxes yet). I’m genuinely terrified that I’ll have another breakdown. And what if it’s worse than the last one?
I’ve already cried in the van twice, since I was by myself. Brad has already had to convince me that I’ll be okay, that I’ll get through this, that Shiloh will be here to help me and I can always talk to him and come see him when I feel overwhelmed.
God, I hope he’s right.
I hope I can make it.