So, I finally was able to get the rest of my stuff out of her house yesterday. She made it a lot harder than it should have been. I could have gone over just about any time and got stuff, or sent someone else if she didn't want me there. But, no, the time had to be scheduled in advance, negotiated by lawyers, and she had to have "witnesses" there. I guess she was afraid I'd go crazy, running through the house, and taking all her stuff.
Since I'm so known for that sort of thing.
But we were finally able to do it, and got it all over here.
And that's a pretty big milestone, and it carries with it it's own emotional content. That place truly is no longer my home at all. Not only do I not live there, and am not allowed to go over there, but none of my stuff is there. It is all hers now. This place here is my home now.
It wasn't the nicest house in the world, but I still put a lot of work into it. Even more, I put a lot of dreams into it. And it has a lot of memories. And it's no longer mine because it was taken from me. I'm no longer family man living in the nice house in the nice part of town. Now I'm living in a bachelor pad on the less nice part of town. That's a hard transition, and this makes it all real now.
All I have is my life is what I have right here. I'm not a stuff person, in terms of finding happiness in things (well, except for books, but those are a bit different), but it's the simple fact that she has rather effectively removed me and cleansed the remaining traces of me from her life. The fact that my stuff is HERE was important to her because that means it isn't THERE.