Leaving Chicago

I left the apartment for the last time by the back door...I had to get my bike off the back porch, so I walked through the empty space--empty of my stuff, that is--and down the back doors, out through the alley and I was gone. I thought I would feel more upset, more something, but I mostly feel tired. It's like someone who has long been sick has died--this is a sadness that you were anticipating, a sadness that needs to be got through Dune-style, passing through and around and over me and when it is gone, I remain, different, stronger.

And it doesn't stop you from crying or rending your clothes or being really upset because this. bloody. sucks.

Dad and Peter rented a trailer and hauled away my belongings and me as easily as picking up a dropped book and we made Green Bay by five pm. I thanked them both about a hundred times--not only for the physical exertion of hauling my precious books down three flights of stairs, but also because I couldn't explain how I was feeling. I wanted to apologise for not trying harder, for not making it work out, for missing London so much, for always being so sad. And they said "don't worry about it" and "that's what family is for" when I explained that I sent an email out to some people I know here asking for help moving--no one responded--and I assumed by that I have no friends in Chicago. I'm sorry. Thank you. And they said "don't worry about it" which I understand to mean "stop it. We love you." And when I got home Mom had cooked two chickens and an entire bag of green beans (which are my favourite) and I understood that to mean "don't worry about not getting into Madison, I still love you." And Brenda showed me paint chips for baby's bedroom and told me to come play with her dogs.

So I ate too much chicken and tried not to worry too much about putting my brother in the hospital with a herniated disk and smiled gamely when dad railed on about different actresses at the Oscars.

I feel so pathetic.

But I am loved.