It’s funny(-weird). Whenever people ask me about my childhood, I always say the same old stuff: I was born in New Orleans, but my dad was in the Army, so I moved around a lot as a kid.

In the course of the past week, however, I’ve come to realize that this is not entirely true. I didn’t move around a lot. I was moved around a lot. There’s a big difference.

Only now, when I’m actually having to move myself, do I realize how big the difference really is. Moving was difficult for me as kid, but it was difficult because it meant that I had to leave friends and familiar places and head into the great unknown to make new friends and start a new life. I remember the emotional upheaval of moving because that was what affected me most.

But to be honest, I don’t really remember a thing about packing stuff up, about having our furniture taken away, about having to decide whether to keep something or throw it out or give it away, about having to deal with the logistics of getting ourselves and all our stuff from one place to another (the “another" usually being someplace an ocean away)… I don’t even remember so much as packing a suitcase during any move as a child or teenager.

This is fairly disturbing, actually. I (was) moved around 8 times between the age of 1 and the age of 17. Obviously I don’t remember the really early moves, but I feel like I should remember something more of the later moves than just the sadness of saying goodbye to an old place and the trepidation when confronted with a new one. Why don’t I remember the packing? Why don’t I remember the cleaning and the clearing out? Why don’t I remember paper and boxes and packing tape?

Now that I’m faced with my own move to England, I’ve developed two theories about these gaps in my memory: either my parents did an absolutely incredible job of somehow shielding me from the horrendous stress that must have surrounded every move, or I’ve somehow suppressed all the memories of my childhood moves because they’re too traumatic to deal with. In fact, up till now I worked very hard to suppress all thoughts about this move because they were too traumatic to deal with. But the denial isn’t going to work anymore.

It’s only now, I think, that I really grasp the true extent of what a move means. Just a few weeks ago I was watching a program about moving on television, and some psychologist was saying that the psychological stress of moving is surpassed only by the psychological stress of a death. I certainly can’t pass judgment on this statement. I can only say that moving - especially when a change of country and the crossing of a body of water are involved - is infinitely more complex and taxing than even I, an Army brat, had imagined.

I’m going crazy, and we’re not even in the thick of things yet. When I start to look forward to having my wisdom teeth pulled just because it will be a distraction from all the thoughts about packing and painting and moving - well, then you know I’m in a bad way!