An object, for the sake of fun let's say it's a blanket, to an untrained eye appears to be nothing more than tatters tied together begging to be thrown out. The eye doesn't realize that it kept the monsters from creeping out from under my bed at night, that its cool, soft texture calmed me whenever I ran it through my fingers, that it wiped away countless tears, that it traveled with me to far away lands, and that amazingly, despite its inanimate label, it somehow manages to love me unconditionally. I suppose there is a kernel of truth in that old cliched saying, "one man's trash is another man's treasure" after all. I definitely think that each person has their own language of object-memory association, and this language of emotion is one of the most complex out there.
I decided to psychoanalyze myself, as I often like to do, and try to become aware of the meanings and memories I associate with objects in my everyday life.
There is a big green mug with a picture of Goofy--your favorite Disney character--on it that I bought for you when I went to Disney World in the 8th grade. Every time I use it I remember that your response was, "When am I ever going to use this. Like I need another mug. What a waste of money."
When I see the bright striped tie of yours, which is sprinkled through many pictures in the apartment, I remember your comment "I have so many ties already, why do people keep buying them for me?" Another reaction to a present I got for you.
When I see one of the miracle blade never-dulling knives, I remember how you bought this expensive set of knives for Mrs. Smith--the mother/wife of the family you so obviously wish was your own--ages before you gave them to Mom.
Every morning when I boil water for my coffee in the fish kettle with the bubbly spout we bought for Mom one Mother's Day, I remember how you made me cry in the store because you told me the kettle was ugly and that I was silly for liking it. I must have been six or seven. And Mom loved the kettle.
These memories haunt me, plague me, are embedded in me. And I think I officially spend too much time in the kitchen. But I use the kettle. And I drink from the mug--I suppose as a way of defiance, a way of survival, a way of perseverance. But I will always have those memories, so long as I have a mental image of those objects. And that is my baggage. Baggage I carry with me everywhere, every moment of every day. Baggage that affects the way I see the world, the way I perceive people, the way I think and the way I feel; for good and for ill. Try as I might, these memories follow me everywhere I go, and I have no doubt they will venture to the opposite side of the world with me too.
Perhaps forgiveness would lighten my load. Forgiveness might rid me of these constant reminders of your condescension, negativity, and disinterest. I've tried that before, many a time, but I always reached the same result: my blanket absorbed my tears and my load got a little heavier. And I am not a big enough person to open myself to you again. Not now anyway. Maybe not ever.
People rarely realize the impact they have on others. How, despite their arbitrary origins, words and things and memories really have epic significance. I wish with all my heart that I could trade in all my baggage associated with you for one memory of love. But I cannot, so I do my best to simply move forward and try my damnedest not to let my load weigh me down.
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