Despojo

My closet was a mess.  I hadn’t cleaned it for almost a year.  I still had clothes in a size 4; I now wear a size 10.  (I should probably grapple with my weight issue – sooner, rather than later – but it simply is not a priority right now.)  

I’ve read the books.  I know that by holding on to things that no longer fit (my body or my life), I am creating a bottle-neck so that things that do fit cannot make it in.

At the point that I started to clean my closet, I didn’t know why the task was creating so much resistance in me.  I am not a hoarder; the rest of my home would probably be considered sparse.  My mother-in-law and mother come to my house, see designer bags they like and take them; I don’t mind.  So why my closet was in such disarray was beyond me.

I took everything out and threw it on the floor.  Now my closet and my bedroom were a mess.  Then I walked away from it all and attended to more “urgent” matters:  I went to the post office; I went to the grocery store; I took Brendan shopping for sneakers; I checked my e-mail; I read celebrity gossip on-line.  When I could no longer avoid the mess in my room, I headed back to it with a scowl on my face.

The part of me that believes in scarcity demanded that I keep my stuff; the part of me that knows there’s abundance urged me to get rid of as much as possible  -- much more would come in its stead.  As I started throwing things out, I found that my mood lightened.  I threw out everything that I hadn’t worn for more than two years.  I threw out everything that had seen better days.  I threw out anything whose fabric had pilled or that had seams that were coming loose.  My closet and my room started looking better and better.

Then came the impossible:  my journals.  Where to begin?  I had years and years of journals.  I picked one up and encountered my 20 year old self whining about my father’s indifference and emotional abuse.  The 23 year old me was obsessing about law school grades and finances.  My 25 year old self was pining away for some fool who clearly had no interest in me.  My 28 year old self was crying over some ass who’d stood me up.  From 29 to 38, I was busy cataloguing every infraction committed by Big Bren.  I found a few episodes of fun:  my friend Mindy’s bachelorette weekend in Miami; my trip to Jamaica with co-workers; my first trip to Europe with my friend, Nycol; my second trip to Europe with my mother; and hanging out with my law school buddy, Cora.  But, in between those bursts of sunshine, were long stretches of clouds and rain, usually because of some man.  Where had my life gone?  Had I really spent almost 39 years being miserable?  

I went back to my earliest journals and found that most of them were filled with longing.  Aching to be loved by my dad; yearning to have some sort of meaningful relationship with the man.  So cliché, right?  Brace yourself for more:  all of my relationships with men had been patterned on that all-encompassing need to please my dad.  I was in serial re-enactments of that love/rejection dance.  

When I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse about myself, it finally seeped into my consciousness that my dad simply did not like me.  He probably loved me, but he didn’t like me as a person.  Much like the person I wrote about in my previous post, I grated on his nerves.  And it was his right not to like me.  There is no rule that says you have to like your children.  Of course, the child me didn’t know any of this and each grunt he gave instead of responding to my attempts at conversation felt like a physical blow.  Every time he directed a look or a question to one of my siblings, while pretending I didn’t exist, broke my heart.  Even as a grown up, when I drove an hour out of my way to patronize his auto repair shop, only to have him charge me more than I would’ve paid had I not tried to give him the business, it hurt.  He drove a knife into my very soul when I proudly gave him a copy of the magazine that had published my first article and he – without so much as glancing at it – threw it on the table and re-focused his attention on the t.v., as if I hadn’t even spoken.

Sitting in my closet, with the chaos surrounding me, I finally released everything.  More importantly, I released him and I released that little girl inside who loved him and needed him so much.  Many years ago, I forgave him for all the ills of my childhood; for the absolute fear I felt when he drank; and for the fact that the smell of liquor can send me reeling, even today.  Although I had forgiven him, I had never released him.  I was still holding on to that need, that longing.  But when I dragged the garbage bags full of clothes, bags and books to the drop-off, I felt light.  Like a new woman.  It was a despojo – the sloughing off of the old and being renewed again.