Are we happy?

I would not want to move twice. Granted, to varying degrees, I have moved seven times, but none of those moves felt as onerous as this one.

For one thing--and not a small one--this is our house. It is not another apartment where, no matter how cozy we make it, we can never totally be at ease. In our apartment, which we had lived in for over ten years, we had bags containing removed aerators and closet doors that would one day need a reunion. Amber had put frosted appliques on the exterior windows and painted the bathroom — the latter of which could not survive the latent water damage in the ceiling that concerned none of the landlords enough. Our apartment was never meant to be a home, though we had neighbors who preceded and outlasted us. After we leave, I assure Amber that the rental company--whoever that is now--will gut it, and not only because it now needs electric heat. We will receive the whole of our deposit in deference to getting rid of us so they can jack up the rent. We could have left it with torn-up carpet and holes in the wall, and they would have happily written us a check.

There was no transition where this was not my house. Amber, who finished cleaning the apartment while I worked, regarded ending our tenancy with a salting of sadness. I have wept to leave places I have loved less.

In the process of moving, I feel more distant from Amber than I ever have. Our nerves are frayed by our conspicuous exertions, leaving a dearth of affection. Had I known it would be like this, I might have swallowed the expense of movers so Amber and I could focus on the relative pleasure of figuring out where things should go--though the second bedroom is so packed with boxes that no one but our cats could negotiate a path through, and it is tight for the older two. My office is out of commission as a receptacle of furnishings and decor until after Amber paints it. This does not accordingly push it up the list of necessary chores, and I am not permitted to paint it.

My hands have never been so chapped; the skin felt as though it was liable to split if it came into contact with even one more piece of cardboard. Still, another one would demand ferrying, and I somehow did not bleed out. When the nights came, I slathered my fingers in a stinking unguent recommended for dock workers and farmhands, whose jobs are equally as perilous as carting glassware three miles.

An unsettling silence pervades our bedroom the first night. I do not remember the last time I was expected to rest in such an auditory void. I am usually lulled by a space heater and air purifier, in deference to Amber, who keeps the windows open in all seasons to vent the dangerous levels of radon that the rental company willfully ignored for years.

(Our first night there is far from the first time we shower there. Our apartment's heat went out and, along with it, the hot water. I tried to compensate by mixing boiling water in pots with the cold from the tap, but it was even more indication we needed to move.)

The next night, Amber plays Democracy Now to ease my transition to sleep.

The night after, our youngest cat screams to himself through the night, venting his anxiety at living in a new and exciting place. I am punished for complaining about the silence, and I'm glad to have the sound of beloved life in my home, even as I offer expletives and petting to convince him to hush. (He does not care for my petting. He wants Amber to pick him up and jostle him until he wriggles from their arms. Amber implies this is because they feed Zagreus--I feed the other two--but I am sure he rightly loves Amber better.) The crowding of possessions creeps from the second bedroom, passing against one hallway wall and winding toward the front door. It skips our sofa and most of the exercise corner (nearly commandeered for some future piece of furniture, but it is blessedly a few inches short). The bookcase--mine, though I may make puppy eyes to keep it from gobbling up space in my office--currently houses a few things better kept off the floor, as well as the hub of wires that extends our internet and makes all the lights turn on when a sensor detects our presence. Beside this is an aqua chair rescued from the dumpster and thoroughly cleaned, on which are assorted cushions, rendering the chair unsittable. Before it is the also-aqua ottoman, also scrounged from a garbage, but a different one, which contains notebooks in need of use. Amber would surely tell me these pieces do not match, and the ottoman is destined for my office, but close enough.

The edges of the kitchen are clean enough. I make room for necessary appliances. Things thickly cover our kitchen table. Likely, these are things that belong in a kitchen, but not occupying our table. We will find spaces. I tried once, made a dent, and then made the rookie mistake of gathering more from the apartment. This caused the island of my kitchen table to reach carrying capacity. Hence, the boxes had to colonize the unenviable places on the floor around it.

Our bedroom remains an oasis where our possessions are kept at bay. Bed, dressers, nightstands, a mostly empty bookcase, packed mirror, and Muji cushion (bound for my office). One could visit only this room--though I don't know how they could negotiate the rest of the house blind short of climbing through the window--and imagine we had our acts together. In fact, no.

Amber cannot satisfyingly articulate the vision in their head, so I feel constantly in the way. I like the house; I see the potential. Amber says they wish they had another month to prep and move, but that was not feasible. We cannot afford to spend $ 1,400 in rent and breathe radon for another month for this convenience, though I almost wish we could. We have this week off from work, and we need to use it fully.

I keep telling Amber I want to feel close to them. Had they let me help with the painting, we would be further along. They told me to sit in a corner until they had a task for me, which might involve sanding and scraping but would not involve holding a paintbrush. They needed it done their way, and I could not be a part of that. I live inside one of Amber's projects. I feel like a fist that can't untense. I want to be comfortable in my home, having exhausted much of my savings for this. I don't know when this comfort might come.

If it were just me, I would have moved in. I would not meticulously paint each room. I would not caulk every hole I could find. I admire what they have done (and side-eye that house flippers have all the ethics of slumlords when it comes to slapping beige on the wall and calling it enough). I wish I could have done as much as Amber did without driving them crazy.

They research everything they want to do so they're well-prepared before they begin. Still, when someone comes to refill the oil tank, they become frustrated at the expense. They looked at all the financials. They monitored a spreadsheet for months to determine exactly where our money went and in what proportion so they could assess whether we could afford to buy a house. So, $500 worth of oil is simply unavoidable.

We've been shelling out again and again for all these stupid little real estate things. We had to have the septic tank inspected because the house flippers were unaware that they were on septic. We paid a home inspector to inform us (among other things) that there was a patch of mold in the attic and then paid him again to document it so that the owner would remediate it before we purchased the property.

I do not want to know the particulars of the money. Amber figured out somehow - surely a good and resourceful way - that we both needed to devote 40% of our paychecks to household needs. Every check, Amber figures out down to the penny what they must deposit into a joint account from which our mortgage is taken every two weeks - lower interest that way, so it is as though we are making extra payments. I figured mine out - absent a few dollars of hazard pay every day, my salary is regular. I bumped it to an even thousand. The looseness of this strikes Amber as sloppy but better to be covered.

When we first moved in together, and I was making half of what I do now, I felt a sense of pride that Amber didn't have to work. They could, but I did not require their contribution aside from being present with me. Now, Amber finding their bliss with another pursuit would result in a struggle for us. Although Amber contributed significantly to our household before, especially in caring for our pets, this is the first time so much has been taken from them. They mildly joke that it might be worth paying someone to clean our house every few weeks rather than sacrificing more of their time.

In retrospect, I wish I had just rented a moving truck along with having my father help us get everything out of there. I spend entire days moving, accruing over 24,000 steps for three days straight, and then Amber cries that I tracked mud on a pillow (which was machine washed to cleanliness).

I am okay with all the little niggling things that come with homeownership, or I believe I am right now. I'm not okay with my relationship with Amber suffering, even temporarily. My motivation is not toward acquisition and homeownership. It's toward closeness with my partner.

I do not resent spending the totality of my mid-winter recess this way. I had no intention to be productive in it, beyond writing--at which I am considerably behind. Moving into an actual house is a markedly better expense of time and effort, but it enters a liminal eternity. No matter how much we move, there is always another load to carry. It seems borderline impossible that Amber and I have accumulated such a mass of stuff. Dislodged from its closets and nooks, it inflates and reproduces as though fed on our sweat and irritation enough that it buds.

I wish, at the end of every day we spent in hard labor, Amber and I could have spent an hour cuddled together, limbs entwined, saying nothing. It would have been a true pleasure and relief, though, of course, I was too pissy to suggest it.

last watched: Preacher
reading: Authors of the Impossible