I’m moving soon. In preparation for the move, I’m going through a whole bunch of stuff and getting rid of things 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. Like the pink vibrator I once shoved up the Big Love’s ass, in a drawer I hardly ever go into. Clearly, it’s been cleaned now, but I can’t help but remember that night … when he came really hard and the toy came out of his ass with a little something extra on the top of it.
*Whispers* There was a lump of poo on the end of my toy.
It’s clearly been 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. Maybe I should throw it away now? I don’t think I’m ever going to be cool about using it. I know what happened is a natural, occasional side effect of anal play, but … yeah, no.
This keeps happening to me, though: I keep going through stuff and finding old bits and pieces that I had completely erased from my memory. Like 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, I will. Why not show you the other side of the story. His side. All you ever hear is mine, right?
I found that along with my wedding certificate. I should probably make this the year I finally get divorced from the scumbag husband that still makes my skin crawl. Whatever I thought I felt for that man, I definitely don’t feel anymore. I just look at him with contempt. He’s disgusting. Everything about him is disgusting. He’ll never change and I’m well rid. It doesn’t stop me from keeping the weirdest shit that reminds me of him, though. Why is that?
I found a box in which I’d kept all the cute little bits and pieces from The Lapdog. Like the compilation CD he made me with all of “our songs” on it, and the portrait 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 all past relationships. I’ve got One Ball‘s lapel pin, letters from Big Love‘s time in the War Zone and I was back on my side of the world, and all sorts of other weird things. It’s funny, the things I’ve kept. What’s even funnier is the fact I still can’t throw these things away. All the letters and memories and cute little moments we shared; I don’t want to get rid of them. As bad as times got with each of those men, I had some pretty good times too. I don’t want to forget all of that.
It made me realise I’m 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 gas stations we visited on my journey from one side of Canada to the other.
What’s the point in keeping them all? Why do I keep it 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, so thrilled that THAT was my life. Those gas receipts that I’ve kept; I’ve kept those for a reason. They make me smile. The man doesn’t, but the adventures definitely do.
The portrait that The Lapdog drew, that has meaning too, for me. It’s the “replacement” portrait he drew for me because I lost the original one and had gotten so upset about it. I was half-naked on his bed in the original. I’m pretty sure we were both drunk or under the influence of something, about ten years ago. He was sketching me because he’s a bit of an artist, but he didn’t get very far; I dragged him onto the bed and we started making out in that way that we did. That picture was a brilliant picture and not only because I made him finish at least half of it before finally succumbing to his begging and allowing him to actually touch me. It was playful and fun and the memory still makes me smile. I’ve still got the replacement drawing. It won’t hold the same meaning as the first one, but it still touched me that he’d bothered to create a replacement.
I guess that’s why I emotionally hoard utter crap: for the little smiles I get whenever I find them, along with those lovely memories that pop into my head. It can’t just be me that collects this crap, can it?