And so it begins. The massive overhaul of my home, my first time moving out of an apartment sober. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
I just handed in my 30 day notice to my manager in Hollywood. When I left rehab, and fled the San Fernando Valley, I did so raw and exposed, every single nerve was fresh to the touch, and when I moved into Hollywood I did so because I needed a place where there is constant motion. Light. Sounds. Distractions. This place has become a bit toxic for me, not the actual apartment itself, which is lovely in the morning with beams of light falling through my many windows, but the energy surrounding the area. I saw the Big Dog die here. Duncan and I were great friends and then at a great distance here. This is the first place I’ve ever lived and not used, and it carries a heavy connotation.
Every time I’ve moved in the past eight years (which is about 7 times) I simply pick up and leave. I wait until the last moment to pack, never look at the things I’m bringing to my new home, and end up with stacks of shit I don’t understand or want to deal with. When I left San Diego for the last time, I couldn’t take it anymore, I called my sister on the way out of town and told here where I left the keys. Said if she cleans the place so I get my deposit back she can have everything in there. My flat screen TV. My beautiful dressers. The pots and pans and various items I’ve collected in adulthood. I told her whatever she didn’t want she can throw away. I just couldn’t deal with it.
When I left Sherman Oaks, I did so rather quickly. Yes, I was sober, but I was fragmented. Scattered. A million pieces of the woman I wanted to become. So I threw things in boxes. Stuffed stuff in bags. I was unable to let go of my life there and stuffed it in the closet of my new home to be dealt with at a later date. Tubs of adult oriented things, DVDs, toys, shoes, outfits, an entire identity packed into 3 clear plastic bins and a beautiful little picnic basket. I tried to deal with these things in September, when I attended Penny Flames funeral in New Jersey, the same time I tried to quit smoking, and had a mental breakdown going through my life and realizing how much money and time I’ve wasted on superfluous nonsense. Stripper heels galore. Dainty bra and panty sets I can no longer wear because they were made for the woman I left behind. I tried to sell things off and they were delivered back to me. To be pushed back into the bins and shoved in my closet.
This time around, fully coherent and capable of calculating days, I’ve decided not to wait until the 30th to pack up. I figure a month ahead of schedule should relieve some of the stress, and this time it wasn’t the bins of insanity that brought up emotions, it was the pictures from college, the moments in between playing Penny Flame, that nearly brought me to tears. I’ll go more into this tomorrow, this blog is already quite lengthy…
But I organized the bins. I placed an ad on craigslist saying “Buy My Porn Star Identity” and I’m placing one on eBay as soon as I’ve finished writing. I want to sell it all for $2,000 or the best offer, and if there are no bites then it’s straight into the garbage dumpster. I just don’t care anymore. I’m finding the things I wish to take along with me, the smiles and trinkets, perfumes and books, and the life that I couldn’t bare to alienate myself from no longer paralyzes me to the point of mindless bin stuffing. I looked through those bins, and everything I kept holding onto seems to be covered with claw marks.
This is going to be a light load.
“Learn the alchemy true human beings
know; the moment you accept what
troubles you’ve been given, the door
will open. Welcome difficulty
as a familiar comrade. Joke with
torment brought by the Friend.
Sorrows are the rags of old clothes
and jackets that serve to cover,
then are taken off. That undressing,
and the naked body underneath, is
the sweetness that comes after grief.”