12:02 am
I grant myself permission to let go of the past. Drunky Drunk Girl: You can let go of carrying around your past. Literally.
So, I think I mentioned to you that my boo and I have decided to move back to our island home, and in preparation (because it’s really impractical to ship a lot of shit down there), I have been slogging through my boxes and bags of SCHTUFF, and it is not fun.
Did I tell you that I stored my stuff for uh, almost a decade? Yeah, I stored it, had my drunken breakdown, moved to our island home, and simply forgot about it while I got sober and started a new, much lighter and more wonder-full life (I needed to; it’s how I got sober, finally letting go of some of what I had been carrying around, physically and emotionally, for years).
Well, now that I’ve got it all in my office (I finally cleared out the unit a few months ago), I have been forced to pare it down, drip by drop. Paper by paper. Photo by photo. I could just toss it all, but, eh, I can’t do that–I wonder if this is how people on Storage Wars feel? The constant pull of your STUFF…
I’ve been doing it on the weeknights and sometimes, entire weekends. I mean, it should have been done years ago, along the way. I feel like a “normal” person would have done it years ago. But, I just wasn’t ready. Maybe I’m a hoarder? I do totally have some tendencies, and can kind of relate to that mentality!
Anyway, over the past decade, I built up more and more courage every time I went back to my storage unit to throw out, give away, or donate just a bit more stuff, including furniture and clothes and blankets and blah blah blah–all of which, ALL OF WHICH, tugged at me emotionally to give up. (Oh, that’s the faux-velvet “cat suit” I wore going out to my first gay club in 1995; Aww, that’s my studded belt I bought in LA when I thought I was a rocker-chic with only one piece of rocker-chic clothing to my name then and now; Wow, my ballet slippers from that ONE class I took at 23, cuz, yeah, I was going to become a ballet dancer taking my first class since grade school at 23…) In paring down that kind of stuff, it was hard; I had to go through each and every piece of clothing, and like, relive those moments, years, eras of my coming of age. And, like, let them go. It was hard…until it was dark in the storage facility and I was fondling ratty clothing that I hadn’t worn or even looked at for years. Buh-bye became a lot easier to say every year I went back to “check” on my unit.
As you can imagine, it was tiring and of course, obsessive. Yet, I feel the same way toward the daunting task of going through my writings, and photos, and all the “historical” stuff that tells the story of my life. Moreso, even. Now, I am working through the hard stuff: mounds of CDs, tons of photo prints, entire plastic containers full of saved cards over the years; even bigger containers of endless letters from my year abroad, not to mention–let’s not forget–all my “brilliant” writings from over the years, stashed in a seemingly infinite amount of notebooks, looseleaf pages, planners, diaries, and everything else that one might have been able to write on. Luckily, a lot of stuff after about 2003 starts to show up solely on CDs, which is great–easy to transfer to USB or the cloud.
What have I learned today? Haha. Well, for one, I am too fecking exhausted to carry the past around anymore. I just cannot. I am ready to let it go, mainly because, god, my life sucked then. I mean, I am who I am because of what came before, but, what came before was not all that pretty or something I want to relive. I was lonely, searching, and very easy to intimidate back then; it affected me, my choices, and my friendships. Again, I can cherish the past, but I don’t have to want to relive it, right? Right.
I looked at every picture, from grade school to high school, college, early 20s, late-20s, grad school, wondering, who and what made me a drunk? I mean, every picture: Did how I was then contribute to me becoming a drunk? Did he do it? Did she make me the way I was–pained and increasingly vexed and sad and unsure? I saw a LOT of photos of a sad girl; I read a LOT of chats and journal entries of someone who was seriously searching for herself. (Thank fucking GOD I found her, but I wish it had started, me finding myself, before my early 30s; I feel like I was SUCH a late bloomer, that life really did literally start for me at 40, just five years ago!)
I am playing this blame game the ENTIRE time I’m going through all my old shit; and, I can never let go of the conviction, in my mind, that somehow it was ALL MY FAULT. Yet, someone had to have done something to make me the way I was, the way I would be, years later, right? Was it my parents? Was it my personality? Both, and everything else that came into my life? I don’t know. And, what if I find out? Will it change anything about how things progressed?
My life now, ME now, is way, way better than it was back then; and, while I can appreciate the past and cherish it, simply put, I don’t feel like I have to carry it around anymore to memorialize what is gone. Granted, I will hold onto most of the old photos, and of course, all of my old writings, but one day, I can actually imagine throwing it all onto a heap and setting it ablaze. And that is an insane thought for a writer who has defined herself all these years by what she has written.
Which brings me to learning number two: If I don’t identify anymore with the product of my efforts, what is my life worth? What and who am I without all my papers and books and notes that actually show, hey, I did this, and hey, I accomplished that? What have I done anyway, if it doesn’t seem to matter if I burn it all at this point? It’s like, if a tree falls and no one hears it, right? If I have no proof of my existence, did I live? Does my life even matter? I am 45, and I am actually thinking that most of what I’ve written and produced, is nothing; worthless, in the grand scheme of things; prologue, at most, to my best work…which is yet to come. So, what does that mean for my life’s work and value, if I am already halfway through it? I don’t know yet.
And, finally, number three: I was nicer back then. I wanted and needed and cultivated and prioritized friendships, close ones, back then. I can see it in all the letters and cards and notes that friends sent. Now? I don’t really get a lot of those cards because I don’t have a lot of close friendships. Again, who’s to blame? Do most people just grow apart over the years? And, if not, was it me who pulled away when I became a drunk, angry, paranoid; when I came into my own and realized what I wanted and went for it (journalism kind of became a single-minded pursuit for me for a while there)? Was it them? Is there anyone to blame? Should I try to fix it? I have thought about reaching out to all these people from my past, yet…it feels like it wouldn’t be worth the effort of finding out that what I’m looking for no longer exists.
So, that was my weekend! Like I said, it had to be done; it has to be done. Yet, I am looking forward to it being done, to it being pared down, to a lighter load, to a new start, and…to just burning the remaining lot of it, sooner or later! Haha…
(My mom is coming for a visit this week, which I will probably end up telling you about. And, my job continues to kick my ass; why did I think that nonprofit would be less work than a corporate gig? Oh, and next time, remind me to tell you about my progress in perimenopause (haha): things are getting better, I have to admit. My burning up/dry chills cycles are getting shorter, less severe, and, I am having them less often (some nights, while I am hot, I am not burning up). I have continued my “Costa Rica” diet, or have tried really hard to cut out breads and all sweets. Now, I mainly have rice for my carb, if I want one, and have been eating a LOT less snacks and sweets. I really, really, really think eliminating wheat and oat-based flours has helped with the night heat… More to come in another post.)
Drunky Drunk Girl 