One of the things that I’ve now come to dread is packing up to leave our home. It’s a stressful, upsetting, anxiety-inducing taste of hell. It feels like I’m leaving my wife behind, like I’m removing my son from all the things he holds dear and, perhaps worst of all, I never actually want to go to the place we have to visit at that particular moment in time, so it doesn’t even feel worthwhile.
This may all sound overly dramatic if you’re reading this having experienced no significant loss, but trust me it’s tough.
Let me explain why:
- Because my short term memory seems to have been buried with my wife and I can never remember where I’ve left the things that I need
- Because not being able to remember where I’ve left the things that I need is my least favourite experience at the best of times and instantaneously turns me from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde
- Because when I’m Mr Hyde I angrily turn the house upside down and find things that I wasn’t looking for
- Because when I find things that I wasn’t looking for I discover mementos of our marriage that make me upset
- Because when I’m upset I do things in a rush
- Because when I do things in a rush I pack my wife’s bag instead of mine
- Because when I pack my wife’s bag instead of mine and I’m standing at the door ready to leave, my son tells me that I’m not allowed to touch Mummy’s things
- Because when I touch Mummy’s things and Mummy isn’t there he gets upset
- Because when he’s upset he’s difficult to travel with
- Because when he’s difficult to travel with I get stressed out
- Because when I get stressed out I can lose my rag
- Because when I lose my rag I hate myself
- Because when I hate myself I feel like I’ve got nothing left
So in short, it’s just not much fun.
But then who ever said any of this shit was?
All I can do is hope that one day soon I’ll think the trip was worth the pain.