My morning alarm rings at exactly 7:15 a.m. It only takes me 30 minutes to get ready, but I try to get up an hour and a half earlier; really, I hit snooze until 8:20 a.m. I’m usually not so angry about it, but I haven’t been able to sleep for the past five days. It’s torture. There’s only so much melatonin I can take, and I keep having weird dreams, so I’m trying to stay off it.
I get up to an empty apartment. Like, EMPTY. There is nothing left but my bed. I get in the empty shower and let the water run through my hair. I think about everything. I’m trying to not feel any depression or anxiety, but it’s really unavoidable.
I’m talking to myself in the shower when my phone interrupts with incoming text messages. Friends canceling on our moving day. Great. I told my partner that we should have hired movers. But he was right, our bank account said otherwise. Given the countdown of my work permit, we’ve been trying to save up and have enough for at least four months’ rent, expenses, and food.
I get dressed, and I am already in a mood, a combination of exhaustion, soreness, anger, and fear. In the living room, everything has been packed in garbage bags, and I just want out. My partner and his younger brother are organizing how they will bring the stuff down our five-floor walk-up. Once this is done, we walk to the U-Haul station around the corner. There, the line is long. Very long. It turns out that the U-Haul system is down.
“We should have hired movers,” I say under my breath, rolling my eyes.
He sighs loudly.
I can’t explain exactly why I am in this mood. I can’t control it. I can’t stop myself from snapping. It’s like I’m carrying all of it alone. I walk out. I just leave. I walk with his younger brother to Dunkin’ Donuts. Nothing a glazed donut can’t fix, except when I finish eating it I’m still angry. I huff and puff my way back inside the U-Haul station. I am tempted to say fuck this, let’s do it tomorrow . But instead I hand my partner his jelly donut. I stick my tongue out at him and flip him off. He grabs my chin and moves my head to say no. We laugh. It was all me; I have been a bitch. I don’t know what it is.
It’s finally our turn at the counter when that lady shouts, “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE SYSTEM IS DOWN. PLEASE BEAR WITH US.” Bear fucking with us? BEAR WITH US?!
My life and the course of my life won’t bear with me. This country hasn’t been bearing with me, this apartment lease, the shitshow of a roommate, my friends who didn’t show up. My partner, who is feeling none of this anxiety and only focuses on catching pinche Pokémon.
I bang my head on the counter. My thoughts are too loud.
When the computer system moves, the counter lady tells us to be quick and swipe our credit card, and we do; the system crashes again.
It’s almost over, I keep repeating to myself.
By the time our transaction finally goes through, it is 11:00 a.m. We head back, and I get told I need to stay with the truck. I feel like I sit in that truck for almost two hours; when my sister arrives, I tell her to go upstairs and help. I remain in the truck.
When I finally get out of the truck, I notice that all our stuff is only piled in the lobby. Really? Like, we couldn’t start moving shit to the truck? It’s 2:00 p.m.! I snap at my partner, “Just put the shit in the truck, what’s taking so long?”
“We’re not dicking around, we have a lot of stuff and it’s heavy bags.”
I roll my eyes and go upstairs; my first pair of bags are light and full of clothes, so I throw them down the stairs and watch them roll. The second trip is a little heavier; I get it.
The moving isn’t any faster. It’s slow and full of bickering.
By 4:00 p.m., we’re finally done loading the truck, and it’s raining. My friend Liz has arrived, but the front of the U-Haul only has space for two. We stick Liz in the middle of the front seats and my younger sister and his younger brother in the back of the U-Haul. It’s the scariest and funniest thing to do, but for the first time in the entire day I genuinely laugh.
The ride to the new apartment is only five minutes. We manage to unload the truck on time, but we leave the bed frame in the lobby when it won’t fit in the stairs or elevator.
At this point I really do want to cry. I want to throw out the frame.
My handyman uncle arrives and manages to disassemble the bed frame and bring it up the stairs. Upstairs, he helps put it back together. I hug him. I hug him hard. When my partner’s friend abruptly interrupts us, I can’t help but think, Dude, you weren’t here to help, and now when you show up, you just barge in? How does one not lose their shit? Instead, I side-eye him, say bye to my uncle, and begin giving instructions to people.
By 8 p.m., I’ve given up. My feet are swollen, and I can no longer stand my own thoughts. My friend Liz hugs me and tries to cheer me up, my partner’s best friend gets me a blanket, my partner’s little brother talks about his AP economics class, and the three of us question the shit out of why he’s taking it. Before we know it, it gets dark outside and we are lying on the bed with blankets, the four of us, sleepy, sore, and tired, and we’re laughing and laughing and did I mention starving?
When my partner arrives with pizza, we scarf it down. We’re saying goodbye, and thank you. I lie on the couch, sore, grumpy, and anxious. I take my shoes and socks off; my feet are swollen. My partner doesn’t talk to me the rest of the night. We don’t fall asleep in the same bed. I can taste the tension, but I just don’t have the energy to deal. I can barely deal. I can barely bear with anything.
