I’m Afraid to Move
On all the places we are afraid to leave.
I am afraid to move. If I sold my house and moved into my parents’ old house, all my problems (like this one and this one) would be solved. But I can’t do it. I’m too scared.
The Internet tells me there is a name for this: topophobia, which sounds so cute. “Topo” is Greek for place, although it sounds like a pogo stick or an ice cream topping. The Internet helpfully explains that people with topophobia miss out on a lot of things, like better jobs or relationships or the whole wide world, and no shit. Despite my fear of moving, I constantly fantasize about moving.
I want to live in Denmark, where I spent a blissful year as a kid. Or in the desert, where the horizon gives your spine the tingly feeling. Or somewhere I could have old fat appaloosas in the backyard.
But these fantasies require leaving my small little house, which is holding me hostage. But in a nice way, even with all its problems.
There’s the difficult neighbor with the even more difficult, aggressive boyfriend who has screamed in my face more than once. Teenagers in white sports cars speed down my street, one almost killing me and my last dog. There’s the lack of storage, forcing my roasting pans to share a utility closet with hammers and a fire extinguisher.
