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Even when you think memories are long dead and buried, they can still be lurking in the shadows.
About two weeks ago my apartment complex asked me to move. It is one of those things where a new management company came in and they are renovating all the units. My apartment hasn't been really worked on in three and a half years. The first year and a half to two years, nothing went wrong. Then in the past 2 years it has declined beyond repair.
The fridge leaks, the dishwasher is falling out of the counter space and many other things I asked to have fixed ages ago were never dealt with.
That puts my apartment up on the list of apartments they want to gut. I jumped at the opportunity. The downside was that they wanted me to move by the end of the month. That meant I had to move that next weekend---giving me about 8 days to pull this off.
Gathered up boxes from work, bought large garbage bags from Wally-world and made lists and schedules. I was so happy about having a new apartment, with all new appliances, new flooring and all the extra bells and whistles, but I did not see the biggest upside to this move.
I opened up the one storage closet and started rooting through it. One by one I started finding things he left behind. First it was that Empire Strikes Back figurine case. Then it was the ugly candlesticks I told him I didn't want the day I found them on my dining room table. I had thought I got rid of all the things he gave me or left behind, but I was wrong. I found glasses and plates up in the far corners of my cabinets. I found letters, pictures and other personal items he had hidden from me tucked away on shelves out of my reach. It brought back the memories of the day he sweet-talked the girl at the front office into giving him a copy of my key and then coming home every day to more of his stuff being in the apartment. I never asked him to move in. I never told him it was okay. I could almost feel the anger of the day I came home to find my recliner in the dumpster and his computer set up in its place. It isn't like I was all emotionally attached to the recliner. It was ugly and no one ever sat in it. Still, he never asked me if it was okay. However, I was too scared to say anything at the time. I didn't want to say anything to upset him or send him into one of his "episodes." I didn't want to hear him say awful things about me or threaten to kill himself. I just let it go because I thought he was the best I could do.
When I looked around at the layout of my furniture, I could feel the resentment start to well up again. I hated the whole layout. I hated how he had rearranged my living room and my bedroom to the way he wanted it. Once he was gone the furniture was too heavy to move on my own, so it stayed. Once again, I never spoke up because one of the many reasons I was unlovable was that I was unreceptive to change.
Then there were the things I kept because well I did use them, and at the time it didn't seem like they made me sad. It was a pan, a cheese grater, a cooling rack, glasses his mother gave me, and other assorted items. As I pulled each item out of the cabinet, the sadness and anger grew. Each item I found went straight to a garbage bag. Binders, glasses, computer connectors, candlesticks, and anything else that was his went straight to a garbage bag. Anything that reminded me of him was thrown away. I couldn't even bare to give it to Goodwill. It was just gone. It just wasn't stuff. I was throwing away six months of abuse. I was throwing away six months of fear, terror and pain.
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| Copyright © 2008 Jennifer Hammitt |
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