Funny, or ironic, that I should be writing so much about my childhood in my Losing My Religion series. A couple of days ago there was a new development in my family; the short version is that I’m moving. My son, daughter in-law, and granddaughter are moving much farther away, and I’ll be relocating with another son and daughter in-law, and caring for their newborn.
I say this is funny/ironic because I’m going through a grieving period and haven’t known why. I wrote in an earlier post that change is always hard for me. Still, I didn’t understand why this should hit me so hard. But the emotions, that sense of total devastation, began to feel awfully familiar. It’s not like someone has died, or even that I’m moving out of the country. The grief is very real, nonetheless, and overwhelms me at unexpected moments. Just a bit ago it came to me: this is exactly how I felt when my biological family broke up, and I lost my dad and brothers for nearly 8 years.
How well I remember that feeling of hollowness mingled with a loneliness so fierce that I walked about in a daze. It seems like it happened yesterday–and no wonder, for some of my child parts are stuck in the past still dealing with all that misery. So when I learned of these new developments I was flooded with intense emotions of loss and loneliness, and that feeling (which I’ve never been able to totally obliterate) of not quite fitting in anywhere.
(Just for the record, there hasn’t been any kind of family quarrel or anything of that nature. My son and daughter in-law were offered the opportunity to move 10 minutes from where he works. Considering that he has a long commute right now (sometimes up to 2 hrs. when traffic’s especially bad), it just made sense for them to relocate. And as I’m already committed to watching my new grand-baby, I’m not able to move that far away, thus the move into a different household.)
I know in my mind that the situation I’ll be going into isn’t anything like the one in which I found myself as a dislocated, redheaded stepchild. There won’t be slugs on the walls, wild mushrooms in the shower stall, or The King of the Mountain’s sour moods befouling the air. Yet I’m dazed, yet I grieve, and even though I know it will get better with time, that feeling of De Je Vu has me re-living a past I didn’t enjoy the first time around.
(Though I’ll miss everyone I live with, it’s especially hard to move away from my granddaughter; all my parts love her so much.)