I have to move.
Yes, I’ve had that notion many times before. Let me clarify. I HAVE TO MOVE!
It was bound to get to this point. Two days ago, I received an invitation to a child’s birthday party. It’s being held at a beer farm. (This is the first time I’ve ever felt compelled to rally for a Chuck E. Cheese’s.)
During my second session with Dr. 7, he mentioned that he has two other gay clients from my area—a two-hour trek to his office. Both feel a similar debilitating isolation, both sense that life is passing them by. I didn’t ask for names and, of course, due to patient privacy, he wouldn’t give them. I have no interest in commiserating with other sad-sacks. I just want to leave it all behind.
And so this weekend I’m grounding myself. No running away to saner settings for surface-level satisfaction. I’ve got to scrub, mop and thoroughly de-clutter. Time for my fourth attempt at selling the house. It has to happen this time. Or, well, I may have to spend thousands of dollars on a basement gym. And then get my helicopter pilot’s license. And a helicopter.
Whatever it takes to get me out of here.