Good grief! (or, put less politely, fucking hell...)
I'm going through boxes packed over a year ago, in a whole other life entirely, and it's.. emotionally troubling. I think that's the phrase I'm after. Suddenly, with this dramatic reveal of the context that I've been suppressing for thirteen months, I realise how staggeringly incomplete the last year has been, not living with Naomi...
Finding the box that we received our duty free in in Barbados, or our iron, or my heat packs, or a dozen other things, it all just brings back the memories that have been carefully put into storage until now...
The thought of us living together by the end of the week, driven home by all our stuff, has pretty much reduced me to tears.. How easy it is, surrounded by the trappings of "home" (as defined as being where I grew up) to put aside the actual loss caused by separation.
It's a useful denial... I'm at a point now where all my mental constructs are fairly useful, and rather well crafted - it's how the control freak organises his brain, y'know? A device for maintaining sanity, if you like. It's a good thing really that I waited so long to destroy that suddenly flimsy yet strangely durable fantasy - that things were okay..
I never imagined that an iron could be so moving - I ought to make a note of that somewhere.. And now back to the boxes that used to hold my life, so that I can put it all back together by the time this week is out...
Eh, I hope that didn't sound too harsh, though.
Perhaps we could come up with an alternative plan that doesn't involve trying to alienate my fiancée the week we buy a house....
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