One More Day

My closet is empty – even the skeleton-like hangers have been packed. My bookshelf is bare – the favorites and the shelves themselves have been packed. All that remains is my bed, dresser, alarm clock and scale (how very anorexic of me). I have two piles of running clothes folded on the floor – one for tomorrow, another for Thursday morning. Two empty laundry baskets, a pair of sandals, a tape gun and a dog sleeping on my bed.
I’ve packed each box myself this time. Prior to this move I’ve been a child, an observer of the organizing and packing and hauling. It is now my life to sift through, wrap gingerly in packing paper and arrange neatly into boxes and bins. It is this way not because I am legally an adult, but because I have proven myself to be self-sufficient. Here is where I stray from the stereotype of anorexia – I love change, I seek out adventure and I am not “clingy” or dependent when it comes to matters outside of the kitchen. I still need to tell someone (usually SuperMum) exactly what I ate in a day to assure myself that I didn’t make some massive error of judgement, but beyond that I am a truly capable human being.
Nonetheless, as the pile of boxes grew and my room began to look increasingly empty the tears began to flow. I am excited, I am prepared, I am able to cope, I love to explore, but regardless of my uncharacteristically optimistic view of my present situation, I am moving. I am plunging head first into a sea of questions, leaving my safe little nest forever. My life has been moving in this direction for months now, but it’s never been quite this real. Tomorrow’s going to be tough – there are going to be some really difficult “good-byes” to be said – for that I’ll need to put on my brave face. So, tonight I give myself permission to cry until I fall asleep, for then, when morning comes I’ll be ready to treat this like the adventure that it is.