On Moving...

I've almost been here four months. The last month has dragged, mainly because, as I said in my previous post, the honeymoon is over and the hard slog of 'making it' has now begun.

Today I found myself thinking about the last big move I made. I was 21 years old and had a one-month old baby in tow. I moved from Johannesburg to Cape Town, away from friends and family, to follow my daughter's dad to the location of a sitcom stint he got, securing us some much needed cash. We were to be together as a family while he worked, you see. Thing is, in reality that looked like him having a gay old time becoming a celebrity and me, stuck in a hovel of a house in Woodstock that leaked profusely when it rained, with no friends, no career prospects and no friggin' car. I spent most of every week day in my pyjamas feeding and changing and bathing my daughter, and watching terrible daytime TV like Judge Judy. Then about an hour before 'daddy' was due home I'd clean myself up and make something interesting for dinner. I was a mess. I know now that I probably had post-natal depression, coupled with severe cabin fever. And somehow, after a few years of completely losing touch with my vibrant, fun, funny pre-mom self, I slowly started to find my people. I learned how to improvise and joined Theatresports. I got an agent and eventually started booking work. I left my daughter's dad. The old me was slowly excavated out of the shell-shocked and brow-beaten wreck that my cumulative decisions and responsibilities had made me. And so after 14 years of living in Cape Town I can honestly say that it became my home. I found myself and my best friends there. It was there I became an adult, a creative, a wife.

I survived that huge, terrifying move under circumstances much worse than I have now, and I came out better for it. Much better. In fact, if I hadn't had the learnings and gained the skills I did while in Cape Town it is certain I wouldn't have met my husband and wouldn't be sitting here in Melbourne writing this blog.

I'm pretty sure that the memory of that move has bubbled to the surface of my subconscious today as a sign that the tide is slowly turning. Last week I was a mess, again. Everything seemed to be conspiring to make me feel useless and friendless and penniless, with no real idea of how to remedy any of it. But a week has passed and even though I'm sick (I haven't had a cold in a year which probably says something about my state of mind last week), things are looking up. I have an appointment with an agent. I'm seeing a show created and directed by someone I last saw in my first year of university. I have two friend dates next week. AND THEN, next weekend I get visited by some of my favourite people on the planet. One very special lady in particular: my daughter.

So it is good to remind myself that I have done it all before and survived, and therefore I can do it again. I will slowly find my people and my voice and my niche. It will happen. So in the meantime I will enjoy my husband all to myself, eat Tim Tams and drink coffee and write, and do one small thing every day to get myself out there in some way.

P.S. My hubby just sent me a picture of a band playing outside Fed Square around a fire pit, all gorgeously lit up and festive with the message "I love this city." (Perfect timing!) You know what, I think I do too.