Compartmentalized Love

When quarantine began all those months ago, I had started it with high ambitions. I finally had the time to do all of the things I’ve wanted to, or so I told myself. Quarantine for me lasted just 2 weeks. I was called back to work as someone who was essential to the operation of the coffee company. I had to start training to become a roaster for when the other person would go out of town in June. My high ambitions for those two weeks (this quality making me an obvious choice for a Slytherin) included reorganizing my entire apartment.

I’ve lived here since I moved to St. Louis in the Fall of 2015. When I moved in, my mom helped me unpack or stow a lot of my things. When I moved away from Duluth, I left a lot behind: a desk I had had since I was a kid, an entertainment center that was an iconic piece of my parent’s bedroom growing up, a bookshelf, a couch, etc. I moved in with some furniture but it was pretty eclectic. It still is. Since then I’ve gained a few furniture pieces that I love, and recently have gained more from my generous downstairs neighbor. I was already in the throes of reorganizing when she gifted me these pieces, so as this post will eventually get to, I have yet to enjoy their newfound presence in my space.

When I moved in, there was a lot I hadn’t really touched. Stowing away still-packed boxes of items that weren’t needed was helpful at the time, who knew it would take me over 4 years to try to unpack them. The key word is try. You see, unpacking these boxes takes a lot. These aren’t just any boxes. They are pieces of lives I have lived. Precious mementos from a time that doesn’t exist anymore.

I used to be that person who loved that thing, or I used to be that person who knew that person. The thought of paring down these items feels like betraying a different version of me. One underlying piece of all of these versions is that need to desperately cling to something solid. Something stable. Holding what love and life we can hold. These boxes contain mere shadows of that life. I feel like my job up to this point was to honor these people I have been by carrying what was theirs, and in turn hope that the next person I become does the same for me.

I don’t know who gave me that job. I don’t know where all of this misplaced value came from. I guess I still keep it so that I can connect these compartments of my life, because my brain refuses to. I think it started as a coping mechanism for big changes. Drastic shifts in environment forcing me to be someone new. Holding on to the shedded skin of my former self. Carrying around things I have molted out of. I could leave them for someone to move into.

These compartments take up so much space, physically and emotionally. I’ve put them in closets and taken them everywhere I go. I told myself recently that I would make art from that which I can. Art will last longer and perhaps take up less space. Art will at least be a more presentable form for these shadows to reside. Perhaps art will honor the people I have been as opposed to hiding their things in packed boxes.

I still have a lot of stuff to sort through. My living room is not a room to live in right now. I’m getting there. Every weekend I set my sights on the little steps I have in front of me. I have plans for this space. I have never invited anyone over. I want to do that. It’s been a goal of mine since I moved out on my own nearly a decade ago. I want a fun relaxing nook. I want a little workshop area. I want my game center. I want to have a little dinner party. I want to feel no shame if anyone opens any closet doors.

I have so much love for these compartments my life has consisted of. I yearn for it all to connect, and I realize that holding on to these things isn’t going to do that for me. When I think of why I hold on to them I feel like a child again. A child trying to hold on to stability, consistency, and love. It is so hard to look that child in the eyes and think about letting go of those things that they held on to so dearly. It is so hard to look into the eyes of my fatherless 17-year-old self and think about letting go of the things that remind them of a time where their father was alive. It is so hard to look into the eyes of my 18-year-old self and think about letting go of the things that remind them of the farm they grew up on. It is so hard to look into the eyes of my 24-year-old self and think about letting go of the things that remind them of the Army and of college. It is just so hard.

When you have very little control over life and loss, you cling on to the things you can. I eventually will tell all of those selves that it is okay. You are okay. That success, stability, and love will continue on. It may look different, and it may feel different, nevertheless it is there. And someday, you will feel secure enough to move on knowing that ahead lies more success, stability, and love. Maybe instead of shutting doors on versions of past selves, and starting fresh, you will open doors with curiosity of the possibilities of what lies ahead.

Oh how much love I have for you, my former selves. So much love that I wish I could wrap my arms around each of you and tell you how loved you are. This task of mine is no small feat, and I intend on wrapping my arms around each of you as I go through your things. I intend to create, let go, and love. I know you will be proud of what lies ahead for me. I am proud of myself.

I look forward to connecting my compartmentalized love.