Don’t let fools rush in.
“Did you move up here for him?”
“Are you moving in together when you get there?”
“I bet you’ll be married and pregnant within the year.”
In the May of 2010, a young, emaciated Darci drove her 2000 Nissan Maxima up into the hills of High Country, North Carolina for the first time with her two ‘baby’ cousins by her side. Their father, now your congressman, was in training at the FBI academy and was planning to meet us at my grandfather’s mountain house.
I couldn’t tell you what dates, how many days we were there, or what we did, but when I got home that next week, I immediately began telling EVERYONE that after I graduated college, I was moving to North Carolina.
The plans varied over the years, at first, like most things, I didn’t care why I moved. However, in my Junior year, I toured the MPA program at App State in hopes that it would be my fuel to leave Georgia. But Senior year, I met a boy. We got a house, and started making it a home. We had three lovely pets and water guns (I don’t care who you are, you and your partner need to have small water pistols in the house) and I never wanted to leave. He had big dreams and I was going to ride his coattails into the darkness of death ensuring he reached the stars. And then things changed again.
As the story goes, I woke up the morning of March 27, 2017 in my new apartment and realized that I would have to woman-up to my life finally. Throughout the years, I had not been able to sedate myself with boys, college, or jobs. Nothing quenched my hunger and I was endlessly exhausted with my surroundings. It wasn’t even possible to go for a leisurely drive without passing five places that pulled long-forgotten memories into the front of my mind. Throughout the course of my life, this has been my most irritating C-PTSD symptom; memory flashbacks. Not only because it affects my feelings, but other people are very uncomfortable and suspicious of people who appear to ‘not let things go.’
Nothing says, “you can trust me,” like memorizing socials and tag numbers on accident!
In September of 2018, nearly a year to the day of when I began dating the man who taught me how to love, I had my second taste of genuine love. As I stood at my usual bar waiting to order, just another douchebag soldier snagged the bartender I was trying to catch (as a regular, I don’t care, I’ll tip the same regardless and soldiers may get drunk and tip rruhl ruhl nice). I had been rafting that day and my sass was on full blast. After the man completed his order, I spun around and said, “hey! I was waiting on her.” “Oh sorry,” he replied, “did you want a drink?”
“Yes, I want a drink!” I spat, “and you’re buying” (or maybe he offered, who can say.) As per usual, my comfortability with expressing disdain lead this gentleman (I would not call him that now) to engage me further in conversation. Over time his friends joined, and so did mine, and I discovered that the morons had been caught swimming in the river without PFDs (that’s personal flotation devices, y’all) by my coworkers earlier. As the evening wore on, I became slowly and slowly more enamored with one of the men in his entourage, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Fast forward to November of 2018, just two months had passed and the time was drawing near for my Specialist to leave. We had agreed, ‘no ‘chutes ’til Bragg,” but as the days wore down, his commitment faded. “But what if we don’t though,” became the ever-present question in our minds — but what if we don’t, though? What if we keep going? What if we see how far we can fly? What if we see what it takes to break us? Will it be one-too-many blackouts? Will it be a whorish bartender seeking tips?
Eventually, after a suddenly-canceled wedding date, we decided to give it our all. I took this man, who I initially had not wanted in the wedding photos from my best friend’s wedding, into my life with full force. A month later, he left and I started saving, full steam ahead, to join him.
Eleven months and ten grand later, I find myself here. Sitting in a bar with my laptop writing to you, and what I need you to know is, love doesn’t rush. When I moved to ‘be with’ my partner, I moved an hour from him. Into a city that I wanted, with universities I was interested in, and jobs that I wanted.
My first apartment up here was a sublet, that way if two months in I wanted to hightail it back to Georgia? I could. My second apartment? A six month lease, and still an hour away, now in the downtown area because I prefer to preserve my old car and walk and enjoy the localities that downtowns bring.
I’m moving again this week. It’s been hectic with work, and the illegal tenancy and all that. After being up here for nearly six months, I am proud to say that we’ve leased an apartment together — BUT HE STILL DOESN’T LIVE THERE (GET HYPE FAM). Boy is literally willing to sign his name next to mine to ensure that I have somewhere safe and preferred to live, and still not live there. And that is what this post is about.
This post is about having patience. Patience with yourself, and patience in finding your partner.
I did not move up here FOR my partner. I moved up here because I always wanted to, and then the person I wanted most, was also here.
I did not move in WITH my partner. Been there, done that. Tried to reverse it, started an argument, don’t do it! I mean, you do you, and all, but respect if you’re the kind of person who needs space, because there’s no faster way to destroy a good relationship.
I will not be MARRYING my partner, at least not while you’re still reading my blog. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to get married while he’s in the service, and we’ve only been together for 13 months you goddamn crazy pieces of shit.
I am not rushing. I am riding out this life. And why wouldn’t I? Things work for me, hell, they work for us. He and I are happy as two peas in a pod, and even happier after our Fiber internet gets activated next week ❤ Don’t let the ‘fools rush in’ and fuck up your shit, ‘slow ride, take it easy’; and most importantly — always surv;ve | never surrender.