One
of the birthday cards I got was handmade, from Nathaniel. He had taped a
quarter on the inside of it along with a picture of him and me holding hands.
It’s terribly cute. It reminded me that several years ago Benjamin gave me a
card, handmade in crayon. Inside of it he had taped several coins totaling
perhaps 40 or 50 cents. And the thing is that if I looked through my stuff long
enough, I would find it. The money would still be taped inside it.
My
writing space, the shelves in my room, and even in my truck there are stored
items, treasures by my definition. Garbage and/or junk by most other standards.
I can’t seem to let go of a lot of things. I tend to attach a memory to an
object and then grow the irrational fear that getting rid of this object will
cause me to lose something else as well. If
I were to throw this away, I could lose the memory. I might be throwing away
the love that this gift was given with.
Sometimes it’s not just in the middle
of the night that irrational thoughts seem sound and sane. Sometimes, if held
onto long enough, they become canon.
When
I was 8 years old and moved from Arizona to Hawaii, my parents didn’t have
trouble convincing me that the moving truck wouldn’t be able to fit all my
stuff. I gave away some toys and actually threw away a big stack of car books,
the kind one usually got from dealers. As I settled into my new home in Hawaii
I had a good-sized bedroom all to myself. I also had a developing resentment
that things were not as good here as they had been there. I longed for my life
back in Arizona. Maybe that’s when I started to have trouble throwing things
away. I realized that it was an unusual habit. But I was never inconvenienced
by it until I had to move. The first real shock came when we had to leave
Hungary after living there two years. We could only pack what we could check
through on the flight home. I couldn’t pack the sword I bought and I didn’t
even have room for the Russian gas mask.
I was sad to leave
them behind in the apartment for the next occupant to enjoy. But I made sure I
had room for other things. I packed a few pieces of a toy stroller that Naomi
had. And I packed some broken parts of student’s desks from the school I had
taught at. Those worthless items meant more than the sword or gas mask. They
had pretty much no monetary value, but I made sure to keep them. Attached to
them were memories of Naomi cheerfully pushing her stroller around our flat and
teaching kids. I think I still have the items somewhere.
I don’t know what
kind of person I would be if I lived in a mobile home with only a half dozen
cats for company. I have only heard about a television show that showcases
people like that so I don’t know much about people whose lives are severely
affected by this disorder. If I had never married and had no family or friends,
would I be one of those people? Maybe. I can easily imagine what I would be
like and don’t even like to go there. But I was assessing the inventory of my
life as I tend to do this time of year. When Nathaniel gave me that card with
the quarter I remembered right away that I still have some lose change from a
few years ago and I’m afraid to spend it.
So maybe I’ll look
for that old card and break off the coins. One thing to do would be to add the
quarter from Nathaniel to it, take it to the 99 Cent store and buy a candy bar
for 49 cents. But the really brave thing would be different. I don’t know if I
could bring myself to do it. But I could empty the change into my container of
lose change and mix it all up. I don’t know if I could go there. Maybe I should
do that. Because if I bought a candy bar I would feel inclined to not throw
away the wrapper.
So my drawers are crammed
with homemade birthday cars from my kids from over the years. There are toys on
my writing space, some from my childhood and some recent gifts from my kids. I have
bits and pieces from cars I’ve owned. Stepping back and looking at this habit from
the outside it looks a little depraved. But to me it’s only attaching a memory to
an object, even if it’s literally a piece of garbage like the disposable coffee
cup that Prajna drank from during our road trip to Arizona where I saw the house
I sat in years ago and threw away old treasures. This little foam coffee cup, worth
nothing to the world, has a value to me I can’t quite understand. But it has a blend
of memories. And there is a real concern inside me that if I were to drop that piece
of garbage in the dumpster and never see it again, there would be an emptiness in
my life.
There, I said it and
that’s how it is. I know it’s not rational. Maybe it’s not healthy either. Maybe
I should start with that handful of change. I could drop it in a donation box. It
could be a start. We’ll see.
Ack! You still have that coffee cup? I promise I will not be gone if you throw it away.
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