This is a repost from my Facebook page, with a little extra info since it's been two days since I posted it.
I moved to Tennessee because Thing One wanted to move here to pursue his dream of being a songwriter. After we split up, I stayed because I didn’t want to move Andrew away from his father. Even after Thing One got remarried and moved to Missouri, I stayed here because I didn’t want to move Andrew further away from Thing One than he already was. And then I got involved in the local theatre scene, found my people, and met Doug. Though Tennessee has never really felt like home to me, I managed to build a fulfilling (and while Doug was alive, a blissfully happy) life here.
That life ended 457 days ago.
I spent the first 28 years of my life in New Jersey (literally: I moved to Nashville on my 28th birthday). As of July 1, I’ll have spent the past 27 years in Tennessee. I think that’s enough. I cannot start a new life in the place where my old one crashed and burned. And the truth is that I hate damn near everything about this state: the heat, the humidity, the tornadoes, the distance from the ocean, and yes: the backwards politics. I love my people, but I hate my “life” (in quotes because it’s not much of a life).
I have an opportunity that may never come again: real estate values in Middle Tennessee are skyrocketing, and I bought this house when prices were super low. Sure, I could remodel this house and make it exactly what I want it to be for less than I would spend living somewhere else… but it would still be here. And here is a problem.
Doug and I were toying with a move out of the country, but I’m not prepared to do that on my own. We talked about buying a place in Kauai, and I gave that serious consideration, but it’s not affordable. I mean, I could buy a place inland, but it’s too damn hot to live there unless I’m living within spitting distance of the beach. And traveling back to the mainland to visit would be prohibitively expensive.
I want to live in a place where it’s not brutally hot almost all the time from May to October. I want to live in a place where weed is legal. I want to live in a place where physician-assisted suicide is legal (because I am NOT going to linger in agony if I develop a terminal illness). I want to live in a place where I can drive to the ocean any day I want. I want to live in a place where the state and local legislators are not batshit crazy culture warriors hellbent on passing legislation that discriminates against marginalized people while ignoring the very real problems their constituents face. And I want to live in a place where I can go back to Hawaii every few years without breaking the bank in airfare.
After looking at all the options, I’ve decided to move to the Pacific Northwest (most likely Oregon, and most likely the Portland area). I made this decision about a month ago, but didn’t want to say anything until I’d talked to a realtor to see if what I’m looking for (in terms of location and price) is something I can afford. It turns out that I can.
There’s a lot that has to happen before I can move: I have to Marie Kondo THE FUCK out of this house (the house, I can handle; the garage I’ll need help with, because spiders). I have repairs that need to be made inside and out (and oh, I’ll be asking for recommendations). I need to have professionals come in and deep clean (after I get rid of all the stuff I don’t want to take with me). I need to paint (inside and out). I need to repair the apron of my driveway (it’s in terrible shape). I need a new mailbox. I have a shit ton of furniture I’ll need to sell (because the only stuff I’m taking with me are the things I absolutely love).
Yes, my son is here, and I’m not gonna lie: leaving him is going to be really, really hard. But he has been incredibly supportive, just as I would be if he decided to move somewhere else. I’ll be thrilled if he ends up following me out there in a few years, but he’s a grown-ass man, and he gets to decide where his path will lead.
I don’t have any illusions that moving west will fix me, because there is no fixing me. I will forever be broken, with a gaping hole in my heart that was created when Doug died. I’m not thinking moving will be some kind of magic fix. But I need to build a new life; to do that, I need to be in a new place. And, for the first time in my life, I get to choose where I want to live. I get to choose where and how to write the next chapter of my life story. The best gift I can give to myself (and to Doug) is to live again. And I just can’t do that here.
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Since I posted that to Facebook two days ago, I've put together a pseudo-project plan (too soon for timelines, but I'm the kind of person who needs a plan). I'd scheduled today and tomorrow off so I can get a head start on Phase I (basic decluttering) so I can bring in professionals to deep clean and then start on repairs: 15 months of neglect has taken its toll). For the first time since Doug died, I'm actually motivated (today I'd planned to tackle the kitchen, and I'm already nearly finished with that at 1PM).
