My stuff’s all in boxes. Bags and boxes and neatly arranged in shelves, on the floor, or under the bed.
And I’m not saying this to announce that I’m neat. I’m saying… I’m in a transition stage.
In my parents’ place, mom has packed everything I own into neat boxes, everything arranged like Tetris, perfectly packed and nothing out of place.
In my fiancé’s place (yes, fiancé, that happened recently), my things are in boxes and bags, arranged on the floor.
I have doubles of everything. Shavers, pillows, plushies, food. Things still in my parents’, things bought at Jarrod’s.
I just bought clear boxes, without a plan to do so, because I walked past them at the grocery store and I was reminded of how my mom packed all my stuff. I didn’t like how my things were slowly spreading across Jarrod’s study room floor, and decided I’d try out two boxes, and see if it would be better. Sat down to pack things up, and yeah, it looks better.
It also looks a little… I’m… sad?
I had gentle dreams of owning my own place someday. A 2-room HDB, I guessed, at first. Gentle dreams because they weren’t a goal, just a thought. A 2-room because it’s the first, most affordable home in Singapore. A BTO. (Then later, when the dream got dreamy, a loft with a huugee window, bedroom and bathroom upstairs, kitchen and living and rooms downstairs. A fireman pole to slide down — though maybe now I’d replace it with a slide. I don’t like dropping any more. Wish I never went on roller coasters. A circular staircase seems nice though. I went up and down one recently, all metal and still light and airy. I liked that.)
Now I’m… not exactly unwelcome. I am welcomed. I also… don’t have space–well, I do, Jarrod cleared out a wardrobe section and I’ve conquered it with just a selection of clothes. I brought over a luggage bag (that he bought me) and slid it under the table beside the bed, and it’s another storage space for more clothes and the giant bundled bag that holds pads (seriously, there’s a lot. night pads, day pads, pantyliners, and each of different lengths [25, 27, 32 cm, don’t get me started on pantyliner lengths…] and qualities [breatheable, secure, extra-long/wide wings]…)
I’ve conquered the empty section of floor in his study with more things (seriously, I have so. many. things.)… bags, tablets, chargers, books, things to use in the bath, make up, perfumes…
Any notion I had that I Marie Kondo-ed my life into living like a minimalist is now laughable.
Thing is, with all my things always packed away, it feels like I’m meant to keep moving, that I’m not staying. Not at my parents’, not at Jarrod’s. Like, at any given moment, I could pick up the boxes and bags and move.
Who knew having stuff laying around meant you belonged, that you were home?
(Is that why we call our things “belongings”? We belong where our stuff is?)
It’s like living out of a suitcase, because you’re temporarily in a hotel, not a home.
And the home I gently dreamed… Jarrod and I joked that we effed up each other’s life plans. (I was not supposed to start dating for another month or two, and then I was going to enjoy going on dates and being on dating apps, then Jarrod comes along, and… well, now we’re engaged.)
I guess I have to mourn the loss of that home. I was looking forward to one day owning my own home, away from my parents, to do with and decorate and outfit as I pleased. To clean or mess up and cook/bake in as I wanted.
White walls and pink throws and a bed with a bedsheet all mine to choose — white linen. silk pillowcases just to try. solid coloured white and pastel pink and blue sheets. a blanket i chose.
things by my own design.
I guess I’d looked forward to that.
To that independence.
Especially after being in a super long relationship, and actually looking forward to the years after the guy passes on, (it was toxic, and it was how i consoled myself, that i would go live my life and chase my dreams without his interference after he died, since we didn’t look like we were ever going to let go — thank Divinity for us splitting up. em, where was i? oh–) i guess I… i was waiting for the time i got to have my own place, and let myself be my guide.
to discover who i was when i’m alone and not performing for anybody.
when the space is mine and i unapologetically take up space.
and now that Jarrod’s in my life I have to, appropriately, change the dreams.
i’m moving into his home — his name is tied here, with his mom, and i don’t want them to have to sell and move and what’s the point because we’re all living together anyway.
and even if we get our own place in the future, it’s an our space, not a me place.
// Sayang, i know you’ll be reading this, please know i’m not complaining, or asking for a solution. i’m just trying to figure out how i feel… by thinking… -_- . haha. //
i am grateful to have him in my life. that we get to choose to spend the rest of our lives together.
I just need to… stop apologising for taking up space. take up space. just ask if i can do things. maybe just do things.
~
it’s… not the same.
like, if i buy my own pot, and i scratch it, and it gets damaged, it’s fine, it’s mine, i did it.
but this home isn’t mine and i feel like i’m trying to slip into the cracks and crevices and forgotten spaces. the holes that happen to already be there.
it’s like my mom can take everything i own and pack ’em (she did do it nicely) into boxes and move in.
but i can’t come here and start rearranging their stuff and shift things because I want to move in.
they’ve filled this space with an expectation of two. they’ve got patterns and habits and sentimental items that i may never know about.
~
i mean, his mom is great. she’s completely adapted to me being here and she’s done the laundry (my clothes are on the poles to dry) and she got me pillows and a blanket when I was cold and…
i had a room. i had a room i fought really hard for to decorate and fill as i wished. and a bathroom too.
and now i have a strip of floor and a section of cupboard and some forgotten space under a table and in the shoe rack and cabinet.
wow way to make myself cry in the kitchen at 11:58 pm.
(I put pizza in the oven and I’m typing with my tablet on the microwave.)
~
I’m expanding in my emotional capacity, in my healing, in my journey. this shrinkage of space is temporary.
my brain tells me i feel like an outsider looking in. is that true? no. because his mom has welcomed me every step of the way (pillows, blanket, water bottles, laundry, snacks, food) and Jarrod’s been holding so much space for me to go through my own personal, emotional, developmental journey.
It’s temporary, that my belongings are in boxes and bags and all packed up. It’s temporary, that my things are split between two places.
I moved in to Jarrod’s. Technically I had a sleepover and never left.
It makes sense that my things are in two because I’m also in transition, my life.
Being girlfriend to fiancée to wife means I’m moving from one home to another. And for a while that means my things will be packed in boxes. For a while, that means I will have less space than I’m used to.
I’m supposed to move out of my parents’ home anyway, whether or not Jarrod came into my life.
I just didn’t expect i’d be moving somewhere that isn’t a blank slate for me to paint.
i guess my potentially brilliant decorating ability will have to stay dormant a little longer. i could still try to bake. if not here, well, we spotted places that let you pay to come in to try to bake (and it beats buying all the ingredients and equipment). and if i reallyy want pretty linen/cotton/silk pillowcases in pastels and white i guess i could buy them for here.
~
so i don’t get to traipse home whenever i want, late at night, to my own place, turn on all the lights, make a lot of noise, go shower and waddle to my bed to violently slump into.
so i don’t get that freedom to do whatever the hell i like, consequences be mine alone to bear.
i might not dance late into Tuesday night socials, because Jarrod needs his rest because he’s got work tomorrow and the rest of the week, and lots of times in the mornings, but i get him to come home to.
i might not be comfortable mucking about in the kitchen, scratching and denting and making a lot of noise and possibly burning or undercooking food, but i get food. mummy goes down to buy whatever, Jarrod Grabs food whenever, and i’ve started stocking up snacks and cereals.
(dang it i forgot to buy cup noodles)
i might be living in little slips of space now, but that means i get the chance to really look at what i have and what i need and curate, and to learn to open my mouth to gently ask for what i need. (i’m working on that last bit. to ask, and to do it gently.)
I’m getting sleepy, it’s 12:25 am.
and maybe the bed is too small for two, but i get to sleep beside someone who loves me (and whom i love) and whose presence (for the both of us) we relax into.
~
okay, my brain is empty. i can sleep now.
time to edit, and put a picture, and post.
12:48 am: edited. not sure about the title, will think as I look for pictures.
1:08 am: got the title, picking a picture.
💖
Image of a bridge by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay.
