Looking Back on Four Years Spent: I Forgot That I Have This Account And Now Is As Good A Time As Any To Start Using It.
When you’re not quite thirty (oh shit, thats in six months), four years is still a sizable chunk of time. Its almost daunting to sit down and write out a look back on this amount of time, especially spending it somewhere that is not necessarily the ideal location for your mid-late 20s to have been spent when you don’t have kids and all your friends live back in New York and it took you long enough to make those friends that you don’t have the energy to make new ones in a place you’re just going to be leaving and this is a serious run on sentence.
This is only going to work as some sort of cathartic, stream-of-consciousness type post where I look back on all the crazy shit that happened to me while things for Bridget remained nearly unchanged. With the exception of marrying me and changing her last name. Which I guess is actually super monumental and I shouldn’t be diminishing that in any capacity. Maybe that isn’t the best way for me to introduce myself to this medium (ha! wordplay!) but with change comes the impetus for more change, right?
Four years. Did you know that four years is the longest I have lived in the same exact place that wasn’t with my parents and as a child? And even then, I feel like we moved a fair amount during my childhood with the longest time probably being from birth until the summer between fourth and fifth grade.
A lot of memories accumulate along with the physical things you put in that second bedroom that you didn’t really need but you got it because you thought that people might want to come up to New Hampshire to visit you, without thinking that its covered in snow for half the year and your friends don’t really like hiking or other outdoor activities that happen during the other half. You start to find things that remind you of the person or people that you were over a given period of time, you’re reminded of slightly different versions of yourself that you might have forgotten.
You find the book you wrote that you were so proud of that you printed it out with grand intentions of marking it all up and making it better and being a “real writer” like you wanted to be in elementary school, only to get wrapped up in a job that wasn’t the exact right fit for you but you were good at it and it helped pay for your wedding. Then when you go back to it you start reading the first pages and think that everything is so ham-fisted and clunky that you forget that those two words mean nearly the same thing and you don’t even go back to delete that because you’ve gone too far at this point.
You find your notebooks from when you took all those online courses because you hated the original job you got when you moved up here and knew that you needed to do better in order to be the kind of man that deserved to marry your now wife, but you didn’t really hate the job you just hated your boss and so did absolutely everyone else but corporate couldn’t get rid of him because no one else wanted his job up in the middle of nowhere. You look back on all those diligent notes with hope that you can be that kind of student again someday when you need to learn how to run a business and wonder what happened that made you get so complacent once you changed jobs and why you stopped taking more classes.
You find the hospital paperwork from when you got sick, and it all floods back to you how things were going alright that year and then really hit a low point when you couldn’t do anything for nearly two months. There isn’t a whole lot to write about that point in your time here but if you had any advice to pass on it would definitely be to check for ticks even in your hair.
(and then theres the point in your writing where you accidentally swipe with two fingers and move the page back one, realizing that medium is so far a lot better than your previous blog format if only because it saved everything as a draft and nothing was lost.)
Where was I? Right, there is the physical stuff that accumulates, but the memories start to pile on each other and they all rush back to you as the walls start to empty and the rooms turn into a pile of boxes by the front door.
You remember this is the place you built the bulk of your relationship. Even though it started so long ago, and was a newborn in a different place, you took a big leap to move somewhere you both knew no one but each other. You can see the good times and the bad times play out in front of you while you’re taping closed what feels like the hundredth box of books.
You see the place you proposed. You remember the whole day, right down to the first and last time you went to that donut place in the morning beforehand. For some reason you can’t remember all the words, but you remember that it was the most perfect day and it just felt right in that moment. You were supposed to wait until the ring was back from the jeweler, but you couldn’t and you didn’t want to. Even now writing this, flooded with all the emotions of the day, you have to remind yourself that you need to hold on to these memories but also know when it’s time to move on.
I could go on for thousands of words more listing all the things about this apartment I will miss, while strategically avoiding disparaging the area because I will not miss our town or this area of the state or even really the state all that much… but thats not what this is about. I guess the main reason for this was just the acknowledgment of a passage of time, and the necessity to remember every iteration of who we are. And that seems like as good a place to end this as any.