The Moving Saga

If I never move a dagnabbin, godforsaken box in my entire life, I WILL HUG A PORCUPINE. A real one. Quills and all. I would rather have to slowly and painstakingly remove hooked quills from my chest region, than pick up another box/carton/bin/container/random bucket of junk. Which means I'm in for a painful next few days, considering that now it's UNpacking time. Joyous. This wasn't your typical one day movathon however. This became what will be forever known as the Massive Epic Weekend Saga Moving Hell Adventure. Lets begin:

Day 0:

Preparing for the move! Combine one negative-nancy-familial-moving-helper plus one ill boyfriend plus new house furniture moving plus two pre-trips so that I had a set up room having for myself plus uber stress plus still not finished the house PLUS U-Haul totally SCREWING us by allowing us to book (a month in advance) a 17 foot truck then calling us the day before moving day to tell us that it wouldn't be there. But they had a 14 foot one. 2 hours away. Discount Trucks saved the day with a 24 foot truck only 30 minutes away. Our saviours. Awake from 3pm Day -1 til 2 am Day 1.

Day 1:

Up at 6am, picked up the truck. Laughed my ass off watching little 5'4 mom driving a 24 foot truck around town. Movers arrived (one tiny 110 pound girl, and one 6 foot 4 basket ball player) and the race was on! Huge heavy tubs of dishes and crystal were my job to slug from the kitchen to the cars, load'em up, take them to the house (thank god it's only 15 minutes away), unload them and then head back. Lather, rinse, repeat. It took 6 hours to pack the truck top to bottom, back to front, slamming the door closed to keep things from tumbling out. Ate the only meal of the day at 8pm. Movers were finally finished at 11pm. Bruises start showing up all over my forearms from lifting heavy things. Pass out at 2am again.

Day 2:

Up at 6am, had to tape up mom's wrist cuz she fell out of the moving truck and landed on her hand. 7am at the old house filling up the truck with shit from the garage going to my fathers place for storage. In a colossal rage, much swearing and heaving and burning through emotions with hard physical labour. Feels good. So much dust I think I may be dying. 9:30 am, family shows up to help. We pack until 3pm. Truck is full (and much more poorly packed than Day 1. Damn professionals make it look so easy). 3:30 more family arrives. I get to tie an air hockey table to the roof of a station wagon. Feeling the burn now. More random bruises from falling out of the moving truck when I missed a step full skinned shin. Excellent. Get to the house, unpack. Mom heads off to my fathers house so he can unload his shit. Have a brief nap. Wake up, keep slugging. My sinuses are so swollen from dust that everytime I swallow my ear drums explode. I sleep sitting up and crumpled over to one side.

Day 3:

More moving and hauling. I spend some time at the new house unpacking. Almost die in a massive box mountain collapse. Manage to save myself and the cat and anything fragile. Lose a date with dignity when I stand up to climb over the box and immediately trip and smash my eyebrow into a cement topped table. Move moving, more slugging, think I'm getting sick. Mom, sister and I have a sleepover on the floor of the old house. I discover new bruises on my stomach, hips, thighs and arms from using various body parts to heave heavy things up into lifting positions. Is intensely glad to be wearing padded bras through all of this. I wrap myself up in a duvet to watch an awesome thunderstorm, promptly fall over and fall asleep at 10pm.

Day 4: D-Day

More moving, more hauling. Temperatures sore and I'm soaked within 10 minutes of lifting boxes. Have a mini freak out at how much crap there still is. Family is back to help out. We work right up til 10 pm packing and making van trips. Day four of my sister doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING AT ALL TO HELP. No lifting no directing no helping NOTHING. Swallow my rage and keep moving. Boyfriend comes to help a bit for about 2 hours. Gets distracted by a guitar while I'm lifting heavy things. I send him home. Not helpful. We are at the house cleaning and packing yet MORE junk into the car until 5:30 am Day 5. Sneaked garbage bags into other people's garbage boxes. Threw some old furniture around behind the garage as a terrible "oversight" for the new owners. The three of us quietly walk through every empty room, crying. It isn't fair that we've been forced out at gun point because my fathers ego was more important than his family's well-being financially, or physically (case in point: attempted murder). Spend more time crying. Finally lock up and leave the old house. Cry all the way to the new house. Stumble into bed. Fall asleep somewhere around 6am. Seem to find peace in sleep. No dreams, no nightmares. Just four hours of well deserved sleep.

It's over.

Even our lawyer didn't think we would make it. We did. Fuck the world, fuck all the non-believers, fuck the doubters and the people who wanted to see us in a shelter instead of helping us. We survived. Though not on our own time-frame, we left on our own terms. We left with dignity (mostly), pride (a bit battered), and with the knowledge that we did it on our own (mostly, family is a god send).

Now it's time to unpack. There is light. The bank is paid, the creditors are next. We are finally able to start fresh. It's time to move forwards. No more looking back.