My adulthood is perishable

I have a lot of things I need to talk about but I can only talk about some of them and so I’m going to say up front that this blog post is going to be frustrating and self-indulgent and probably melodramatic. It’s also going to be lemon-scented and square-shaped. It will not have wings.

Since the whole ordeal of Marvin being diagnosed with parakeets went down a few months ago, during which time I made the decision to move to California at the end of October, I’ve been to therapy about three times. That’s three times in about four months which isn’t very much if you consider that when you possess a brain as opulent and too-fast-for-Western-Thought as mine, it’s good to have that shit checked out frequently, if only to help future generations begin to understand the complex processes going on.

So anyway, today I decided to catch up with all my FEELINGS, and I was talking about I don’t even know what (sometimes I tune out when I’m talking) and then my therapist asked me if what I was talking about felt like my childhood. It was a very cliche question and I made my judgment known by smoking a cigar which was just a cigar. Then I thought hard about it and explained that no, the feelings I’m talking about now are different than my childhood and I went on to say that when I’m at my parent’s house which is where I’m going to be living when I first get to CA because I’m a baby-grownup (I didn’t say this part, that’s just some background info for you) I feel like my adulthood is tucked away in some suitcase somewhere and that it needs to be refrigerated or somehow tended to because it’s diminishing. “I feel like my adulthood is a perishable,” I further explained. She said that was a good way to put it and once again I was filled with the sense that she should be paying me for these sessions.

Ummmmm, did I have anything else to say or any sort of point? I forget. Mostly I’m writing this because I feel like I’m losing my voice which is a very writerly and pretentious thing to say but it’s true. Part of it is that moving—even just moving from one apartment to the next—jostles my brain and makes me pull into myself in weird ways, but more of it is that I feel like life—my life—is happening around me right now and I don’t quite know where I am in all of it. I think moving from New York to California, although it’s the right move and although I know it’s ultimately going to work out—feels like the violent dismantling of my adult life/self.

And I wish I could put a funny ending on this post and wrap it up in a way so that it’s more entertaining and less whiny and less like I puked my feelings and thoughts all over you but I did.