Today marks Day One of my voluntary stretch of unemployment. I’d meant to spend the day at Bernheim Forest, hiking the Millennium Trail, but I didn’t get my backpack together last night and didn’t want to set out this morning unprepared. It’s going to be hot, and take at least 6 or 7 hours, so I don’t want to attempt it half-cocked. I’ve got my backpack ready now, and my water bottles in the freezer, so I should be ready to go tomorrow. Hoping to get an early start so I can beat the heat.

Instead of the epic cleansing journey I had planned, I spent today running errands, including selling a few more loads of shit to Half Price Books and Plato’s Closet. A few years ago, I’d taken a pile of used clothes to Plato’s Closet and they rejected the lot, telling me the styles were too “mature.” I was so humiliated that until today, I’d avoided the place. Today, though, after having been rejected from Clothes Mentor (a different consignment place where I’d actually had some luck selling a few dresses a couple weeks ago), I gave Plato’s Closet another shot. And the suckers bought two shitty club dresses and a coat that’s missing a button! I got a little under $10 for all three pieces, but the vindication was priceless.

Trenton and I are still slogging through a fair amount of paperwork and bureaucracy in preparation for our move. Visa applications, insurance policies, lease agreements, blah blah blah. With all the forms to fill out, agents to call, and details to arrange, I’m totally in my element. Last week in a grand romantic gesture, Trenton and I met up at Metro Hall to get certificates from the County Clerk verifying our Single Status. I’m assuming it’s something to do with my visa application. Trenton is sponsored by Genscape for his working visa, and I think I’m sponsored by Trenton under a Family Reunification thing. Since we’re not married (and have no marriage certificate to present), we have to have our Single Status verified, proving that we’re not running away from American marriages or planning to reunite with European spouses. At first, tracking down the Single Status Form was a bit of a headache because no such legal document actually exists in the United States. Each state has its own rules, and–here’s a shocker–Kentucky’s are remarkably difficult to track down. There was no information about a Single Status Form on the County Clerk’s website (and, depending on who you’re asking, the form is also called “Certificate of No Impediment,” “Certificate of Non-Marriage,” “Certificate of No Record of Marriage…”), but when I called to inquire, they knew immediately what I was talking about, and Trenton and I were able to get everything we needed on the spot in about 10 minutes.

As far as feelings go, I’m still bizarrely detached from it all. Everyone around me–Trenton included–gets these wide eyes and high-pitched voices and can’t get over how EXCITED they are. And I guess I am excited too, but there’s something in my brain that’s holding me back from full-on thrilled. I just keep working through the organizational pieces–selling shit, making phone calls, setting up appointments, canceling services–and I haven’t allowed myself to fantasize about what it’s going to be like. This isn’t the first time I’ve exhibited some Vulcan traits and, not to get all heavy on you, I attribute a lot of it to being a child of an alcoholic.

Adult Children of Alcoholics, or ACOA, (as we refer to ourselves) are known for being neurotic worrywarts, and for not allowing ourselves to get carried away with fantasy. Especially if the fantastical future we’re thinking of is coming through the efforts of someone else. In this case, Trenton is taking me to a magical fairyland that everyone promises is going to defy my wildest dreams. The ACOA in me throws up these thick barriers of coping and my brain refuses to let me get my hopes up. No matter how many books I sell, airplane tickets I buy, or translated legal documents I sign my name to, I can’t fully accept or get excited about the fact that I’m moving to Amsterdam (probably) until I’m actually there. Being disappointed, let down, or having your expectations unmet is the bread and butter of the life of a child of an alcoholic. We live for and kill ourselves over that shit. It’s fucked up, I know.

The worst part about this defense mechanism of detachment is that I can’t help but think I’m missing stuff. For the past several months, it’s felt like I’m watching my life from a distance, as an impartial third party witness, not actually involved. I stand a few feet away, watching myself say and do things that look like the things someone moving to Amsterdam would say and do. But I’m not really completely there. Here. It’s more than a little disturbing and I’m hopeful that I can shake it. It is getting better (it’s been two years since Trenton and I first started talking about this as a possibility) and as we get closer to the move date (Sept 13 probably!!), maybe it will start to sink in. I think being in the woods for 7 hours of hiking might help a little too.

If I make it out of my transformative Bernheim day alive, I’ll report back tomorrow!