In a week it will be four months since I moved to LA. Tomorrow it will be one week since my mattress was delivered and I spent the first night away from S, with Milo, who slept in the bathroom and didn’t meow all night. The flight back with my three year old cat was similarly uneventful. I gave him sedatives. He slept by my feet for the five hour flight. He staggered like a drunk person through my new apartment, colliding gently with doors, bouncing harmlessly off the walls.
The apartment sat bare for a week while I bought a car, ordered a mattress, slowly moved my clothes and my books and my things from S’s place to mine. Milo’s cat food bowl filled with ants. I cloroxed the kitchen floor and haven’t seen one since. The shower drain was clogged and my first shower was taken in ankle-deep water. I cleaned the drain.
All these things piled on top of the other. You have Milo and you have your apartment, now you need a car. You have a car, now you need a bed. You have a bed, now you need a mattress. You have a mattress, now you need a desk. You have a desk, now you need a chair. Now you need a nightstand. Now you need to order the internet.
But things are slowing down. Things are coming together. Today I edited for the full day, for the whole entire day, and then S stopped by after work and I felt like myself again. Like myself again, almost. Like myself—only a little more tired. A little harassed. A little overwhelmed. I’ll be fine again, soon. Until then, all I have to do is wait and go through the motions and wait some more and then—finally—breathe.