Moving Out

It's the last week of living at 10544 Santa Monica Blvd. On Saturday, my husband is going to take my cat and get in a UHaul and drive to Seattle. I'll move in with my friend down town. We're going to really try this thing out. 

On Sunday morning, Annie and I did a tarot reading over Facetime. Just one card and then some journaling and then sharing with each other what we thought. I pulled the Lovers card, which was apt (maybe too apt for revelation). Annie pulled the Emperor, which is also her birth card, and it was interesting to hear her reflections on it. Both she and Noelle (who I'm moving in with) aren't sure whether pursuing a partner is worth the hassle. They're both successful and largely at peace by themselves. I wonder if that's what I'll find going into this next season. I may or may not get the chance to find out. 

I moved my books and my fancy glassware into Noelle's apartment (some of my favorite possessions for sure). It felt good to get part of myself in there. Like I'm making it real. I'll be all the way in by the end of the week. It's terrifying and sad, but also the new adventure of it is like a siren song. I can't wait to see what happens. I think I might be able to make a lot out of it. Stretch my legs. Create my world and my story. I'll miss my husband at night, I think. I almost feel guilty for not missing him more -- but maybe I will. 

Oh, we had our apartment cooling party on Saturday. It was pretty good. I set up stations -- leave a message of advice for the newly separated, untie the knot, separate the sand. I was amused by it. Several people asked me if I found the idea on the internet. No, man. In my brain. 

Self Defense

I took a self defense class yesterday because I'm moving downtown, and I'll coming home late at night, and that's a way more spicy place than I've lived before. I've bargained with my anxiety late at night, telling myself that I will do what I can to mitigate the situation. One of those things (one of the only things I can think of) was a self-defense class. They're offered for free at UCLA on Wednesdays. 

We learned and practiced some strikes and a few escapes. One of my biggest hurdles, though, is that I do not want to hit anyone. Being in a situation where I have to hit someone already seems traumatizing enough. I want to avoid that. I want to avoid it so badly, that I'm afraid I wouldn't hit someone even if I needed to. (And imagine owning a gun. Imagine having to shoot someone.) 

The second thing is that I can't imagine being able to fight a man (or men) off. I feel like I would need years of dedicated practice in martial arts to stand a chance. I tell myself that all I need to do is be enough of a nuisance to get them to leave me alone. The other thing I need to do is to train myself to do anything in that situation. To run, to call for help, to scream, to fight back. Every time it's come up in the past,  I do nothing. I play nice. I pretend to be asleep. 

I feel like I'm being born into a brand new and much more dangerous world. When I'm out walking on the street, strangers wouldn't know whether or not I'm married, and yet it feels like my marriage covers me somehow. I'm taken. I belong to a man. Now I belong to myself and I'm up to myself and I feel like that's a weakness that people will be able to smell on me. 

I'm athletic. I'm fairly good sized for a woman -- not the most petite person out there to be sure. But I'm so fucking nice, by training not by nature. I feel terrified of making a fuss. Horribly ashamed of calling for help in a dangerous situation. It's so hard to shake the feeling that I asked for it by being female, by being single. Here I have this perfectly good husband, and I'm letting him go to face a horribly dangerous and sad world alone. That feels crazy. 

I'm hoping it turns out to be not so bad. That I can fend for myself somehow. I won't know until I try, but my body is screaming at me.