We move in six days.

H is triggered, because of childhood moves and keeps avoiding, playing video games, but at least finally is talking about why he is struggling to help out.

Boo is finally starting to be a little upset, though still also excited about it.

So far, I had been functional, the strong one, the one who keeps things together, the one who arranges to visit the rentals, deals with the new landlord, changes over the utilities and forwarding address, schedules the truck, sends out the call for help moving, packs the boxes, measures the walls and furnishings, comes up with the plan.

I got back from Friday's session an the notice was on the door. The auction is the 30th. Our place won't be ours. I knew that. It was a little sad, but mostly a relief that we just happened to schedule to get out ahead of time. If we hadn't, the move would have been more rushed and stressful.

I'm not attached to "stuff," to owning somewhere, to living in the same exact spot all the time. I grew up in the same city (a nice one with good schools) from three to 18 and it didn't make my upbringing safe or healthy. I keep telling people it's hard to see my H upset or Boo. I'm not upset though. Or I don't think that I am.

Until today I'm sobbing in bed, trembling uncontrollably, because this is the home in which I made my family. H and I lived with his roommates for a few months and then one other place for a year after we got married. Then we moved here. We made it our own and then we created a beautiful daughter together. This is the home in which she has slept every single night of her life, where she grew to four-years-old. This is the community we took all our walks. Bad things happened here too. It's a place I couldn't protect loved ones from a problem I didn't even really understand was an issue. But, most of all, it is the place I brought my daughter into.

Leaving is hard.

But the hardest part, the worst and saddest part, is I can't manage to let it be hard anywhere but all alone. Not in front of my H, who I protect by being strong, just like I did with my parents. Obviously, not in front of my daughter, though I do talk about how feeling kind of sad with her, so she knows it is normal, even though I'm not crying in front of her. Not in front of my church friends who express empathy at what we are going through, who would be there with a hand or a hug...if I were capable of it. Not even with T.

I can only numbly describe that it's hard to leave the place I made memories in, but in the moment of discussing it, I don't even feel like any distress is true. And I hate to even talk about it, because every sorry, any empathy brings such panic, and a need to dismiss the significance of my feelings, to focus on knowing that so long as I continue to keep my family together and we all work on healing and growing, things will be better and better. Knowing that there is a plan here.

Sobbing in bed, I know I need, desperately to be hugged and held. But, I know I can never have that need with anyone else. I can only be alone. I can't connect. I have people, church friends, T, even somewhat safe family members who would do that, comfort me, but I can't take it in. I feel hopeless...then destructive. I felt like going to a hospital, although the thoughts themselves weren't that bad. The kids inside are so pure and honest about their needs, but I can't touch them, can't approach them, without it feeling like death.

I cried until I couldn't breathe and then slept. Nightmares, one after another. Mean people CPs say they recognize, but I don't, but feel familiar. Known people being scary in ways they never have. Old friends being there and comforting in ways I know they never would. Deep pain. Aloneness.

And inside, some want to go home to where they used to live. Not to the family, but the place, because it's all they ever knew. My feeling loss triggers the reminder that all they ever knew is lost.

This is too hard.

And I feel very alone.

And the worst part of it is that I have made my own aloneness...

...because some people a long time ago, whether they intended to or not, ensured that I can't ever feel safe being loved.

That should be devastating, blindingly, wrenchingly sad. A couple of hours ago it was. Now it is apathy tinged with a dull ache I can't describe as anything other than the feeling of wanting to be gone.

I'm sorry if this was hard to read or follow, but thanks to anybody who did. And I'm very sorry for all who have tried to care for me and found me desperately fending their love off. I wish it could be different. I know it can be, somewhere in the far reaches of my mind, someday. But, right now it seems too long and too hard, nearly impossible.