I’m moving soon. In preparation for the move, I’m going through a whole bunch of stuff. I’m going through it all and getting rid of the stuff that I no longer have a use for. That’s the plan only it doesn’t appear to be working that way.
I keep finding stuff that I wish I hadn’t found. I found the pink dildo that I once shoved up the Big Love’s ass in my drawer that I hardly ever go into. Clearly, it has been cleaned now but that night; that night the worst thing ever happened. As he came to an almighty climax, he forced the dildo out of his ass alongside with a little something else.
*Whispers* There was a lump of poo on the end of my dildo.
It has been clearly cleaned, washed, sterilised, you name it since then but I don’t think I’ve ever used it again. I’m not entirely sure why I just didn’t throw it away at the time.
This keeps happening to me – I keep going through my stuff and finding old bits and pieces that I had completely erased from my memory. The letter from the Hubby where he apologised for cheating and punching me in the face and admitted that he didn’t think he would ever be able to sleep with just one person for the rest of his life. Maybe one day I’ll publish that particular piece of work. In fact, maybe I actually will. Why not show you the other side of the story. All you ever hear is mine, right?
Anyway, I found that along with my wedding certificate. I should probably make 2014 the year I finally get divorced from the scumbag husband that still makes my skin crawl. Whatever I thought I felt for this guy, I definitely don’t feel anymore. I just look at him with contempt. He’s disgusting. Everything about his is disgusting. He’ll never change and I’m well rid.
I also found the box where I’d kept all the cute little bits and pieces from The Lapdog. The compilation CD he made me with all of “our songs” on it. The portrait of me that he drew of his favourite photo of me. Movie stubs, concert tickets, art gallery programs… It would seem that I found a box of all the little reminders from past relationships. I’ve got One Ball‘s lapel pin. I’ve got letters from the Big Love from when he was in the War Zone and I was back on my side of the world. It’s funny the things I’ve kept. What’s even funnier is the fact that I still can’t throw these things away. All the letters and the memories and the cute little moments we shared; I don’t want to get rid of them. As bad as times got with each of these men, I had some pretty good times too. I don’t want to forget all of that.
It made me realise that I am an emotional hoarder. I keep the most random of things; letters from the worst periods of my life. ID cards from places that expired many years ago. Receipts from when we bought gas driving from one side of The Other Side of the World to the other. What’s the point in keeping them all?
Is it because of the little smile that sneaks on my face when I remember us driving along with my feet on the dashboard, singing to Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the USA” at the top of my voice, laughing and giggling, excited for the adventure ahead of us. I remember feeling so lucky at that moment. Those gas receipts that I’ve kept; I’ve kept those for a reason.
The portrait that The Lapdog drew – that has meaning too for me. It’s the “replacement” portrait he drew for me because the original one, many years back, held meaning for us both. I was half-naked on his bed. I’m pretty sure we were both drunk or under the influence of something. It was about ten years ago. He was sketching me because he’s a bit of an artist. He didn’t get very far before I dragged him onto the bed and we started making out. That picture was a brilliant picture, not only because I made him get through half of it before finally succumbing to his begging and allowing him to actually touch me. It was playful and it makes me smile. I lost that drawing he gave me. That’s why he drew me another one. It doesn’t have the same meaning but it still makes me smile.
I guess that’s why I emotionally hoard utter crap – for the little smiles that I get whenever I find them. It can’t just be me that collects this shit, can it? Do you keep little remnants of relationships passed to smile at when you are alone with yourself?