cold feet

Yesterday I decided I would not move to Alaska.
Today (tonight) I decided I will (probably) move to Alaska.

Can I be human for a minute?

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This summer hasn’t been easy. Panic attacks at a severity I’ve never experienced. Writing at a snail’s pace. Sadness. A stupid, overwhelming sadness. The what the fuck am I doing where am I going how am I going to pay for bed sheets and oatmeal and why am I going and why am I not writing and I don’t even like close reading so who the hell am I going deal. More than anything: I am sick. Sick. Sick. Sick. Pretending not to be sick. Denial. I won’t go into details, it’s nothing crazy or life threatening, but something that makes me weak every day, gives me the spins, makes me nervous about students and colleagues relying on me.

If you’d told me a year ago, I would move to Alaska, I’d be shocked and confused and very happy. And I think Past Me would tell Current Me to buck the fuck up and get on the plane.

But does past me know the whole story? (I’m sorry, I know that’s cheesy.)

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Two weeks from tonight, I’m maybe in Alaska. I may (definitely) need some wine.