Moving On

I was born in Woodstock, Ontario (see below) and lived there for the first year of my life. Then my family moved to Welland, where we stayed for about 3 years. Then we moved to Queenston Heights, which is near Niagara Falls, and lived on the production chicken farm for about another 3 years. We then moved to Niagara-On-The-Lake, and stayed there for almost 6 years (for me, this was grades 1 through to the last term of grade 6). Then we moved to St. Catharines, where I lived until I was almost 19 and I moved to Toronto, because I was a big girl. I lived in Windsor for 4 years, until I was just shy (we’re talking a week) of 35 years old. Now I am back in Toronto.

I went to many different schools, growing up, one for nursery school, one for junior kindergarten, 2 different schools for kindergarten, one for grade school, one for junior high, and one high school. Wait, two high schools. And two colleges.

My first stint living in Toronto, which was about 12 years, I lived in 9 different apartments. I co-owned the house in Windsor, and now I live in my own little place, with the grey rag, Rose.

Now here’s my point: I have moved a lot in my life. Not just changing schools in the same town, but moving to a completely different town. Sure, they were all close together, but when you are 5 years old and don’t know how to drive yet and you aren’t allowed to use the phone, and the phone isn’t fun ANYway, it’s hard. And you learn to adapt. This is why I hate saying goodbye. It’s why I don’t do it. Sure, there was a big going away party for me when I was moving from Toronto to Windsor, but I knew, in my heart, that I would be coming home one day. I didn’t feel like a goodbye, it felt like see you later.

I miss my friends in Windsor. I am angry with myself for not saying goodbye, at the least, and angrier still for not having the balls to stay in touch. For thinking that maybe they weren’t really friends, but thinking that I wasn’t really their friend.

Shit.