Moving. Fucking. Sucks. Mr Buttcheeks and I moved this weekend, about 9 hours from where we've been living but a move that brings us much closer to our families. To a beautiful place with lots of (distant-ish but lovely) cousins. We live by the ocean! With a view! In a desirable location! People actually want to visit us! Yay!

And despite it all, I'm miserable. The move was fast and difficult. The movers were assholes. My mom helpe us unpack - which was WONDERFUL - but by the end of it her suggestions of how to file a claim and where to put my plates and pointing out every little flaw in iur rental was driving me insane. Everyone kept looking to me for answers to every question ("where should I put this?" "Where do you want this?" "What should we eat?" "Where should we go?") and I felt myself start to lose it. I almost broke down in aisle 5 of the grocery store, right in front of the sriracha, because Mr Buttcheeks asked what I wanted for dinner.

I went through a period of anxiety and depression after our last move, so this isn't unexpected. But I thought I was prepared. I felt ready. We are happy about this move. But here I am, waiting for the first big crying jag to hit.

I left my job for this move. I'll be home alone most of the day while he's gone at work. I'm going to try to stay busy, but I know I need time to settle down, to get more comfortable and just breathe. I can feel my mind racing and my anxiety rising even just thinking about making adjustments to a new place, new people.

Thanks for reading the ramble. Sometimes it helps to just lay all the feelings out and look at them.