The Urge to Run Burns Deep. So That’s Why I Rearrange My House Every Six Months.
A glimpse into the life of a mentally unwell (but in the process of healing) 30-something
If there is one thing I’m really good at, it’s looking at a narrow staircase and thinking, hmmm, how can I finagle a 200-pound armoire down this by myself?
The plan I come up with works every time.
Well, I always end up getting the armoire to the bottom of the stairs. And so far, no one has been crushed in the process.
Aside from my bathroom door.
But that was only one time so does it even count?
Some days, on the worst days, my poor husband will arrive home after a hard day’s work and find that our room and children’s rooms have been swapped. That, or the living room furniture, is all sitting in our carport awaiting this unique paint job I just discovered on Pinterest, and doesn’t it look sooooo cute, Hunny?
Something is wrong with me, and I’ve finally determined what it is.
I’m a runner.
Not to be confused with the jogging variety. I am a runner in that I run far, far away from my problems.
Allow an eccentric internet lady a story, will you?
Once upon a time, there was a young girl of 16 years old. She had many a friend and was relatively good in her classes at school. The girl’s life was great except for one thing. She lived with an ogre.
Look, he wasn’t the worst ogre out there, but he was still a bit of an ogre, okay.
The queen, the girl’s mother, was a good lady but could not do anything about the ogre residing in their home. And let’s be honest, the ogre just had some shitty cards dealt to him in the past, and he vented that garbage in the only way he knew how — booze and anger.
Shrek anyone?
Anyways, because the girl felt trapped, she ran away. She ran away to a magical little town called Sylvan Lake, and there, she found herself in even more trouble than she had at the ogre’s home.
But the girl was a stubborn one, so she stayed away. Living from one room to another on a shoestring budget. The girl quickly learned that when you have little money but a cute, unassuming face, hitching a ride to the next fork in the road isn’t so difficult.
The girl had taught herself how to run away.
The girl…Okay, I’ve written myself into a corner and am having difficulty swapping back to the first person. You get it, though. You guys are smart. The girl is me. I am the girl.
I learned young that running away from my problems was much easier and safer than dealing with them head-on. Alternatively, I would ignore them completely, which always landed me in a whole heap of issues. So, usually, I’d try to outrun the problems I faced on a daily basis. Running became my safe place. A new house, or town, or even province. I was always up for a fresh start because leaving the difficulties behind was my comfort zone.
Then, because foresight is clearly not my strong suit, I fell in love with a guy named Jamie, and we created a couple of babies together.
Yeah, yeah, the kids are adorable, but do you know how difficult it is to make a run for it when you have a toddler hanging onto your leg for dear life?
Jesus’s Murphy, can’t I get a minute of peace around here to pack a bug-out bag?
I don’t know if it’s my early learned behaviour that running solves most problems, or maybe I’m just an awful person, but every year or so, when life gets to that breaking point where it seems that all the worries and strife piles up into an unsurmountable shitstorm, I think to myself, I need to get the fuck outta here.
I fantasize about running away.
I’d go to the West Coast and live out the rest of my days in a shack near the ocean. I’d find an old typewriter and scroll poems for passersby, but because I’m no good at poetry, people would think they were joke poems, and I’d probably do alright for myself.
Except bummer of all bummers, I’ve come to enjoy my family.
Love them, really.
The kids are so much like me personality-wise, and being the raging narcissist I am, that really strokes the old ego because my kids are the best humans on the planet. This is the truest sentence I’ve ever written.
And Jamie, sweet, sweet Jamie. I’d never be able to run away from that guy because he’d track me down with his impeccable wit and cunning, and he’d say, “What the hell, Linds, I thought we agreed I’m coming with you!?”
These three are not the ones to run from. They are too funny, sharp and all-encompassing.
But they do get annoying sometimes.
And so does life. I’ve learned that drastic (but not life-altering) change is enough to quell that deep burn to flee.
Hence moving the house around. Thus, the spontaneous painting of furniture. Therefore, talking with a poorly constructed British accent to telemarketers, even though I know that’s offensive to British people, and I should probably go to ethics jail or whatever.
Family members come over to stay for the weekend and lovingly tease me about how our house never looks the same from the last time they visited. I laugh along, explaining that my house plants needed better lighting, so that’s why I completely rearranged the living room, kitchen, both bathrooms up and down, and also my bedroom, which gets no natural light at all.
My guests don’t know that this is only a half-truth.
Of course, I will go to the ends of the earth to make my houseplants happy, but my moving around of furniture goes deeper than that.
The whole truth is moving my house around every six months provides the change my weird brain craves. Rather than the typical fear of change most humans possess, I fear the familiar.
I need makeovers, transformation, and evolution in my day to day to feel ordinary.
Waking up to an entirely new home layout gives me the energy to tackle all the little life problems that pop up in this wild existence.
I can’t really be called a runner any longer. I’m more of a mover, an armoire transporter, a shake-things-upper.
So, if you’re ever feeling world-weary and overwhelmed at the laundry list of duties you’re expected to perform daily and you’ve got that all-too-familiar urge to get the hell out of dodge, take a page from my book.
Don’t run. Just turn your home upside down and bask in the confused misery of your family when they walk in the house and groan, “Oh gawwwd, not again.”
Enjoy the read? If so check out LRB’s newest release, I’m Not the Manager Here!