“What the F**K have I done?” – me at 8:30PM on January 10, 2021.
I arrived in Los Angeles on Wednesday evening after five days of driving from Virginia, my dog, my brother, and my cousin in tow. The next morning, we hit the ground running, first getting the keys to my apartment, then bringing what few belongings I brought with me into my new place. From there, it was on to IKEA, followed by a Target trip to end all Target trips. It was the dream Target trip, really – I got to buy all the things I wanted because I actually needed them.
Rinse and repeat the next three days.
Yes, I went to IKEA four days in a row.
In my defense, there are three – 3! – within thirty or so minutes of my place in L.A., and they all had different wants/needs in stock.
Late Sunday morning, I dropped my cousin at the airport to fly back east. That evening, my brother headed out. And for the first time since the Saturday before Christmas, I was alone.
Alone in my Los Angeles apartment.
“What the f**k have I done?”
I’ve had that thought several times over the first days of 2021. I left my dad’s house in central Virginia on January 2 to begin the drive to Los Angeles. There were tears, but there was also a lot of excitement. Those feelings came in waves as the miles ticked by. On the outside, I was calm, cool, collected. On the inside? I was none of those things.
Not that I ever really am. I’ve admittedly mastered presenting a collected exterior while on the inside, I’m usually a jumbled mess of anxiety, excitement, to-do lists, internal dialogue, on and on it goes. Such is the life of an enneagram three.
This move to Los Angeles has been such a long time coming that it doesn’t feel real. I started thinking about it in the late spring of 2019. My grad school applications were submitted by mid-December and I knew in March 2020 the move would happen. It was about six months behind schedule (shoutout to COVID), but it’s happened.
It’s actually happened.
I’m writing this post from my half-assembled apartment. I’ve got a partially put together nightstand hidden by the chaise lounge of my new couch. My clothes are stacked on a shelf in my closet because I can’t find an in-stock dresser to save my life. My television is sitting on the floor until my TV stand shows up in a day or two. My big box of books is somewhere between Virginia and California.
And I’m still riding the wave.
Most of the time, I’m elated. Los Angeles feels good. It feels right. Part of me already feels settled, despite the very unsettled nature of my surroundings. But sometimes I wonder just what I’ve done, moving across the country, starting over, and during a pandemic at that. I worry about finances a few months down the line, making friends, figuring out how to make it from my apartment to the grocery store without my GPS system.
There is no more “what the f**k have I done.
I’ve done it.
There’s no going back, no hopping in the car and reversing course. I’m here. I’m in Los Angeles. I’m doing the damned thing, even if I’m not entirely sure what the damned thing is.
So I’m in Los Angeles now.
I’ve done it.
Here we go.