anxiety, conveyancing, depression, dogs, dreams, emotion, escrow, fear, getting older, home, hope, house, lost, mental health, mental illness, moving, obsession, panic, property, remorse, rumination, safety, waiting
I’ve always found that the longer it takes for me to get something, the less I want it.
When I was younger, if it took more than ten minutes to get ready I would end up exhausted and listless. I would sit in my finery, my mascara caking and perfume stinking in a house that seemed too quiet, too laden with expectation and assumption. My stomach leaden, the idea of going out seemed reckless, my destination perilous with its people and sound. Suddenly the silence of my shadow would close around me like an ice blanket, lulling me hypothermically into dazed contemplation of a spot on the wall.
I would shake myself out of it and either reluctantly trudge to my fate, or make an excuse and stay in – peeling off my “out” clothes like you’d disarm an enemy, carefully and in pieces. Pyjamas pulled me back into the world.
I would write this off as the reaction of an introvert were it not for other examples of Wait Fatigue.
From waiting for a visitor, to waiting for a package – I can’t hold the idea in my heart for long enough. It wilts and then scurries to hide. My regard can be cruel, but my indifference can be truly brutal.
I am buying a house and the process is becoming interminable. I am four months past the original excitement, and have visited the house three times.
I am trying to hold on to the feeling of hope and change that carried me through the initial decision, but I am becoming sludgy and still – eyeing the journey from here to there with suspicion and a little regret.
Muttley has shown signs of a similar loss of motivation if things get too difficult and he loses sight of his prize. However, prolonged visibility of a small piece of chicken perks him up no end and he then shows alarming persistence. I am trying to be more like him and have begun bounding to my letter box at the first sight of my mail, virtually slathering over the envelopes as I check for word from my conveyancing solicitor.
Last night I had a nightmare. Like one of those fixed camera night vision horror stories, my new house was full of demons and malevolence. It was rundown and squalid, and as I struggled to feel at home and make it mine, things started to move and turn toward me. The house itself advanced on me. It didn’t want me, and yet it needed me. I tried to explain to my family but they suggested paint and carpet. In the meantime I was trapped in a sinister house full of creaks and snaking cables.
In the dream, I ran screaming and rented the house out while I pursued a successful and thrilling career in marine planning. But that’s beside the point….
I’m trying not to taint my image of my new house with the fear I felt in the dream, but I can feel that sludgy malaise dripping into me.
I have to move – but will it be a hopeful, exciting step into a shining future? Or a reluctant trudge toward remorse and ice cold paralysis?