Last night.

In less than 12 hours I'll be loading boxes into a U-Haul and moving. Again. You'd think by the number of times I've moved, I'd be pretty good at it. Not so much. It's funny, because as a kid, I had only moved once. Then in 6th grade I moved. And I've moved nearly every year since. 4 moves in 5 years (not counting living with various people for a few weeks at a time).

I've been here for two years, and I finally feel at home. I finally remember which cupboard has the plates in it versus the cups. I've finally broken into a routine, and I can walk around the entire house in the dark with ease. I don't want to leave. I like my home. I'm doing well here.

I don't want to go live with these new people. Strangers. I couldn't even tell you their last names. I don't know the dog's names. I don't know who they are or what they're like. It's not my house. Every little peice of me is screaming out against this. But there's nothing I can do about it. I can't deal with change.

My shelves lie naked, the contents crammed into boxes scattered around the floor (incase I needed one more reason to not want to move: tripping over boxes). My stress level is through the roof. I'm not sleeping, and when I do, it's fitful with nightmares. I feel sick to my stomach and have a constant headache. I'm cranky, hypersensitive, exhausted, and could cry at the drop of a hat.

My dad tells me to suck it up. He says moving isn't stressful. He's also the same man who's snapping at nothing and who doesn't even have half of his stuff packed up yet. But he's at his girlfriend's house hanging out instead. The thought of her makes me angry. Very angry. I can't handle this. I wish I could sleep, but my body won't let me. I wish my best friend was around, but she's not. Deep breaths.

My new goal: To stay in the same house for 3 years before I'm 30.

Two more years. And I'm done.