"carried along the corridor on a conveyor belt in extreme comfort ... towards the rotating knives"

Well, it looks like we've found a place to live (other than under one of the LSD overpasses). The Wife has been running around with the realtors looking at assorted options, and she finally hit one that she really liked (my input is irrelevant). On the plus side, it's only 0.7 miles from here, so it's not exactly terra incognita, and is just another block or so further away from the L stop and the Walgreens we've been using; however, it's a 3rd floor walk-up (my knees are not amused), and it will be the first time in nearly 45 years that I've not been in a building with a receiving room for packages, etc.

Of course, the whole buying one place and selling another process is dead center on the sort of stuff that triggers my PTSD/anxiety/depression, so I'm feeling like crap already ... and I've only managed to pack a couple of boxes worth of stuff (yeah, books, whodathunk).

Since we've only lived here for 3.5 years, the psychological wounds of the last move, while having developed a bit of scar tissue, are still fresh enough that the reality of having to get everything out of the place where I expect it to be and into boxes is producing a level of amygdala activity that is hard to work with.

As long-time readers of my blitherings will know, "I am the Very Model of" change averse (modern or otherwise), and having to move is horrid. It's also psychologically very rocky ground, and I've been acutely aware that the primary reason for having to move is that I've not been able to find a paying job since 2009 (and that one was non-paying for most of the time there), which makes me feel pointless, useless, aimless, hopeless, and a total waste of skin.

I am, fortunately (I guess), far less into the "ideations" than last time, but that's probably because we've only been here for 3.5 years, and I'd lived down at Newberry for 38.

As these sorts of musings tend to close with ... "sucks to be me".