I skedaddled out of Seattle on a very bittersweet note. My last day at the IN was harsh. My cousin came over to help me quickly pack a few more boxes, knowing that I couldn’t possibly take everything with me. While I was trying to go through all my drawers to decide what to keep and toss, roommates kept entering my room telling me they’d miss me and then started sorting through my piles - while I was still in the room sorting through them myself. More and more roommates showed up to say goodbye and also try to get first dibs on what I wasn’t taking with me. No one listened when I told them to give me space, and whenever I left my room to put boxes in my car, more people showed up. At some point I said screw it, and just left. I was done with that house.
I left Washington because I had four jobs that paid me close to nothing, which made it so that I couldn’t afford rent (and my rent was considered cheap, but should have been far cheaper considering I shared one kitchen and several gnarly bathrooms with 30+ people). I was too broke to leave the house during those dark winters, which only heightened my depression and anxiety. I had wonderful times and promised that I’d move back, but only if I could do it right next time: I had to have a perfect living situation and sustainable income to thrive in Seattle.
As I sit here writing this, I’ve noticed that I’ve come full circle. I’m here with all of those things. And yet, I find myself missing California. It’s no wonder, really, since this pandemic has stripped me of feeling like I’ve actually landed in Seattle to explore all the odd things that remain (what will remain?). It’s a common feeling that bubbles up whenever we finish something - we accomplish our goals and don’t take the time to acknowledge or celebrate the fact that we made it. Rather than looking backwards and feeling bittersweet, I’ll recognize and cheers to my completed task (the World) and work my way towards a new goal (the Fool).