Moving is a terrifying proposition for someone with SPD. My senses often feel out-of-control, and when they do, it makes me feel crawly-skin-anxious. Moving is essentially induced anxiety. Let's take you out of your comfort zone, moving says to the SPDer, and plunk you down in the middle of uncharted sensory territory. Your old home, however loud the heliport might've been, or how small the bedroom, or how lonely the building, was at least a known entity. When the 80s microwave emitted a cringing beep, at least it was a familiar, albeit problematic, sound. Upon exiting the building and weaving into the haphazard flow of New York City pedestrians, at least it was expected discomforting movement.
Moving presents a plethora of unknown sensory issues. How will it feel to sit in the middle of a larger apartment? How well will you fare visually as you stare across new hallways, into disorganized and visually-taxing piles of boxes and strewn clothing? How well will you contend with the church bells and restaurants and neighbors? And what about the subway? Once these become habitual - the ride through the boros, the walk to the bathroom, the environment of the neighborhood - the anxiety will drop to a more palatable level.
At least, I hope the anxiety drops. I moved on Friday, and it's been a very rough couple of days. It's hard to take a random brushing break while moving and unpacking, so I most definitely didn't take care of my SPD body as well as I should've during the stress. Even with getting back to brushing and the usual SPD toolkit, I feel not unlike a perperually-overflowing volcano of tears. I'm quick to cry, quick to yell, quick to wish I had a pair of red slippers that could take me back to my home for the past five years. There's no one quite so unsettled as an unsettled person with SPD.