Loneliness and Loss

I mentioned before that I haven’t been reaching out to any of my friends. Within the last… has it really been 5 months already? Within the last 5 months, my husband and I moved 1,134 miles away from our community. We met there. We studied there. Our friends were there. And now we are gone. And life goes on.

How is that fair? For people to lose so much and for life to go on?

… It feels like I shouldn’t be writing this entry, like someone who knows me locally will find this entry some day and get upset because I don’t feel like they are good enough or something. It’s not about that. It is just very hard to be in a community of similar people, to feel free to be myself, to make very deep friendships, and then to just be… gone. Just like that. One day, we can meet up for coffee and the next, I’m just in a car with my stuff, driving away forever. It was really drastic and really fast.

I went from being a part of a community, feeling empowered to reach out to people, and having friends within walking distance who knew me deeply to being what? Somewhere where most people knew a masked version of me? Somewhere that I haven’t lived consistently since 2004, where I have no community to belong to? Somewhere where I need to balance over-relying on the few friends I have against never reaching out to them at all?

It’s a big change and it hurts.


Living with Her Discomfort

This is another entry about Kuno, my cat, and her transition to our new home. It is good for me to have her around, but it is also difficult because as I watch her struggle with things, I often see myself as well.

The first day of her transition was difficult for both of us. Kuno spent her time on the shelf, sleeping, orbiting on the toilet bowl, yowling. I had already dispersed cat toys and beds throughout the house, but she was too scared to leave the tiny back corners of the house.

Even worse, she had been exploring before, and she had even been sitting on top of the bed earlier. (A cat who always spends time under things is probably scared and insecure, while a cat who spends time on top of things is probably more comfortable in the environment.)

She was living a very small life, but I wanted her to live in a bigger one. She was afraid of things, but I could see that there was nothing for her to fear. She was alone, but I wanted to spend time together. The longer that things went on, the worse things got for me… because I am living a small life, I am afraid even when things are safe, and I am staying alone when I don’t need to. In watching her struggle, I am forced to watch my own struggle from a new perspective. In waiting on her and realizing that I cannot rush her growth at all, I can see my own slow pace.

It’s hard. I don’t like feeling so small.


I’m unpacking the relics of my life- those objects one compiles over a lifetime. It’s rather unpleasant to be buried under all of the physical and emotional baggage. As an example- see the featured image of a memory match game.

It is missing 18 pieces- only 14 pairs exist. I don’t want to keep it- I’m not going to play with it. I don’t want to get rid of it- I liked the game. Both choices are bad, but I don’t want to be a hoarder some day, so I need to do something.

If I’m honest, the only reason I still have this set is because I’ve avoided making a choice for years. There are just boxes and boxes of this stuff.

I guess that’s just how it is sometimes- we can only run from our pasts for so long before they catch us. No choice can be postponed forever, and no secret truly forgotten. I may as well accept it.