The time has arrived to move, I think. I found a new place that I really really like, an hour and a half away from the city. It's not the other side of the universe, but the way I'm crying every day about it, you'd think I was moving to the moon.
I don't know whether all this crying is a sign I shouldn't go. But leaving seems like the wisest pandemic plan. I can always come back later, I tell myself. But this won't be my house anymore. I'll be giving up living alone in exchange for a yard and a big warm beautiful sunny space near the little town I left when I was 18, crying then just like I'm crying now. Then too, I told myself that leaving was best for me, even though it hurt profoundly. I never really got over it. I still cry about it!
It took me 20 years to come back home. Will it take 20 more for me to go back to my city? Will my friends forget me? Will I regret it?
Why is this so hard? Am I over dramatizing this?
Leaving here feels like cutting off one of my limbs. I fucking love it here. But I don't see anyone anymore and going into the halls shared with 9 floors of residents of questionable covid status feels pretty scary when you're not fully vaccinated.
Alternatively, I could wait a few months and then risk the 2nd dose when someone can stay with me at all times to take me to ER if my body rejects it. What else can I do besides double masking and basically walling up indoors for mentally unhealthy stretches of time?
I made a pros and cons list of moving, and the pros list is miles long. There aren't many cons, but they're big emotionally weighty cons. This city is in my blood. It's my Jerusalem.
But I'm adaptable, right? I'm generally not terribly afraid of adventure and change. I'm good at creative solutions when the going gets tough. I trust that whatever I decide will be the right decision. I trust that whatever happens, I'll land on my feet.
10:03 a.m. - 2021-08-09