Be still. Be still. Be still. Stability?

About once a year I find myself staring at a massive, messy heap of my belongings in uncertainty. I need to get all of these things into boxes, bags and crates, but how? It kills me. The idea of packing up everything I own sends me into convulsions of anxiety. I sweat, I pace, I agonize for days and days; in the very end of it I sweep everything into a heap, stuff it into a vehicle and spill it out everywhere upon relocation.

In recent years my boyfriend, Aaron, has been very helpful with getting me moved from one place to another. He's better than I am with organization, and he calms my anxieties. But I haven't lived in one place for over a year since I was fourteen years old (and I consistently moved every two or three years before that), and for as long as I can remember I have never liked moving. There has always been one reason or another to pass from one home to the next within a year's time: if I wasn't switching guardians, my family was moving into a new house. If I wasn't living with my family, I was going off to college, or coming home from college. Or if I wasn't in college, my lease was up wherever I was renting, and my roommates and I couldn't stay there anymore. There has always been something.
This year, however, things are different. I started renting the bottom half of a duplex within walking distance of my workplace with my baby brother last year. It has often occurred to me, since I moved into my current home, how unlikely it is that anything will force me to move elsewhere before a year’s end. What a relief. "How nice it will be," I told myself "To be able to stand still." So refreshing. "How much unrest I will forfeit. No dealing with packing and unpacking and cleaning and searching." True. It's very true that I absolutely, with every fiber of my being, hate packing and moving, and that not having to do so for once in my life is a breath of fresh air.
Today (technically) is Saturday, August 14th, 2010. I moved into my current place of residence on September 14th, 2009 (I think...or else it was the 16th). One month from now I will have lived here for a year. And there's nothing to suggest that I cannot stay put. It's so nice.
But I'm kind of feeling...I'm starting to feel...I don't know. I find myself imagining a new place. A new place that is different and new and new. And new. Not a bigger place. Not a more beautiful or more spacious place. I’m not thinking of a nicer or more convenient place. Just a different place. I find myself thinking, "It's about that time of year..."
Can this really be what I want? I don't want to move. I don't like it. My place is very nice, my neighborhood is nice, and I'm not sure, but I think my neighbors are nice too. Despite all of this, I just feel like I want something else. Something that is not here. I want to go.
Have I grown so used to moving, that it doesn't feel right to be still? Perhaps I would subject myself to unnecessary torment just to feel something familiar. I'm familiar with unfamiliarity, and maybe that is what I need. Maybe I need to stand at my wits end, pulling my at my dreads and asking myself, “How am I going to move all of this stuff?” just to start again.
Or maybe I need to train myself to stay in one spot. It could be an acquired taste. Forcing myself to stand still could be good for me.
I don’t really know, but I find myself on Craig’s List looking over the listings for nearby available houses and apartments. Hmms.

~Nadj