I can finally breathe again. Have you ever had one of those moments where you realize that you have been holding your breath and that every muscle in your body is basically in atrophy?  That is exactly how I felt when I woke up yesterday morning… er… should I say yesterday afternoon.

I was jolted awake. That same jolt you feel after a hard night of partying. You don’t remember going to sleep, but you must have passed out at some point because you just awoke with a start. A spook that propels you forward with such force that by the time you realize that you had been sleeping all this time and your brain stops jostling around in your skull, you know for certain that you are very, very hung over.

I woke up Sunday afternoon with what I am pretty sure was my first real breath in about two weeks.  As I lay there in my old room, at my parent’s house, trying to piece together what exactly had happened, I knew it and yet I still couldn’t believe it. The move was really underway.

I have no recollection of events that had transpired over the past two weeks. I mean, I can remember that certain things happened, that I saw certain people but the outcome of those events and the content of those conversations are gone. They are lost in what could only be described as a brown out. This has got to be what it feels like to be an alcoholic. It is lost time. It’s as if these past two weeks passed in the blink of an eye.  I don’t remember one moment, at least not with any clarity. And I don’t remember exhaling – not once. It’s an utter blur.

I had a “to-do” list to get ready to move. I was focused and moving fast. Time, it would seem, was moving even faster.  The month of March was gone and with it was Minnesota. Truth be told I am not sad to see either of them go. I am just amazed that I actually did it. I put my head down and pushed through a lot of checked items to get here – I mean I worked, I packed, I painted, I said good-bye and I drove 10 hours with three cats in a car to get here.

And Sunday I paid the price. Fitting all of that into such a short period of time is not something I would ever suggest to anyone or ever attempt to do again. I woke up with the hangover of hangovers: all of the headache and nausea without the fun of drinking and debauchery. Had I been sleeping for 12 hours? Or was it closer to 16? I couldn’t tell. I just knew that I had done it. And so I smiled and congratulated myself on my accomplishment. Then I took three Advil with a large glass of water and went back to sleep.