Sometime in the past few days–between the end of June and the start of July, between the anniversary of my return from New York and the anniversary of my betraying my cats utterly by shoving them into a carrier and heading for the horizon–we quietly passed the one-year anniversary of my move to the Seattle area.
I will be honest: I was nervous as all hell when the time came for moving. I had been looking forward to this move for years, ever since the Christmas I’d spent squirreled away in Vixy’s dining room trying to reconstruct my heart from the echoes of a very bad breakup. Seattle is where I keep the bulk of my physical friends, where I know I can find someone to hold onto if I need them. But there are things about the Bay Area I love too, things I knew I would miss, some moveable and some not. Kate and Chris could come and visit me when I was gone. My comic book store and my dentist could not.
(Borderlands Books, one of my heart’s homes, sort of falls between the two. Alan and Jude could come visit if they had time, and I have a guest room now if they’re ever in the area. The store itself, not so much.)
But I missed rain, and frogs, and having a social life that included more than two people. I was no longer in a stable local living situation, and I couldn’t afford a house large enough for me and my mother in the Bay Area real estate market. I wanted to go. I needed to go.
I am so happy I did.
My house–my house, no one else’s, which I bought using money I made from telling stories, which is all I’ve ever wanted to do–is my home now. My bedroom walls are orange. My cats are happy. My housemates, who live with me because they want to, who help keep the lights on, are pleasant and fun and have lives of their own, allowing me to travel and retreat as I need to. My mother is thriving. I am thriving. I go back to the Bay Area to do appearances at Borderlands and to see my dentist, and I love where I live now.
One year in Seattle. No regrets.