Tuesday, April 26, 2011


There are people that treasure a brief jaunt down memory lane over coffee with a long-lost friend.

There are those people that are caught up in the past, or planning for the future, or just living in the moment.

All kinds of people.

And then there are people that hoard memories to the point of needing a token, a tangible reminder from every fucking county fair, movie theater, trip to the hospital, concert, novel dinner locale, job, etc... that they've ever experienced.

I've recently discovered that this is the group that I fall into.

I've been feeling really bogged down with all my stuff lately, plus I have to move AGAIN in just over a month,  so I've taken on the project of compulsively organizing and taking inventory of everything that I have.

I've honestly never been so pissed off at myself.

Tiny scraps of paper, everywhere. Boxes that I can't account for and certainly don't contain anything that a rational person would categorize together. I found a broken desk-lamp in a box with some unopened arch supports, several binders of random papers, and a half a dozen shot glasses. So.... yeah?  I can't just let things go. And I'm terrible at packing, apparently. What's worse, if I can't find something I already have- I'll just go buy a new one. I get that from my father; it's probably a byproduct, like road rage, of having shotty patience.

For the record, I own two glue guns, five staplers, and about a dozen finger-nail clippers.

I could get robbed and never even realize it!

It doesn't make sense, because I'm a compulsive organizer, but it happened. The project just got too big, too daunting for me and so I just made myself forget about all the unorganized boxes of crap that I've been toting around, unopened, for years. I'd open my closet, shake my head at the boxes, make an empty promise to myself that 'this weekend is the weekend,' and shut the door again. Something better, more important, always comes up when there's a task looming that I dread.

On the one hand, maybe I should feel a sense of pride that I can fully document every activity Manfriend and I participated in together during our six-year-long, sexual-tension-filled friendship that eventally led to me pulling a homewrecker around year seven, after he threw in the towel in year six, and and staking my claim.

But I mean, I lived it. So, meh.


At this point it's honestly taken weeks of spurts of motivation to wade through the junk and just THROW THINGS AWAY. It's stressful, my jaw gets tired from clenching. Do I need a pom pom that I got at an involvement fair my freshman year of college? I think not. Good memory, really, but I DO NOT NEED a fucking pom pom.

I never realized what a sappy, sentimental, sucker I am.

Last night was the kicker. Cards and letters. Old library cards, movie tickets. my student football ticketss from college, concert tickets, awards. I guess I think of these sort of things as 'the guts.' The things that are -or were- really important, that demonstrate how I have taken shape over time, that could show anyone what was important to me leading up to now, be that living on drama island for two summers or geeking out over road-tripping to warped tour during my high school teenage angst phase.

It's fun to see all that stuff, like the cards my mom sent me when I moved away from home for the first time. A fourth place ribbon from my favorite cross country course. The library cards from every place I've ever lived. I love that I have post cards sent to me from everywhere you could imagine, I've been collecting them since I was a wee sprout and they make me so happy.

But it's also exhausting.

I've always been a person that keeps a vice grip on the people I love, even when that involves my heart being spread around the god's green earth.  It just means a lot to me that I stay in touch with people. I've got the post cards, letters, mail in return to prove it. And I just really feel that you can't throw stuff like that away. And when they're right there in front of you again, it's almost impossible not to invest the time to read every last one of them. It's a lift, to realize you've done a great job surrounding yourself with heart-felt, caring, enthusiastic people. But it's also a blow to the innards to make see a stack of letters from someone that's no longer in your life. At all.

And I keep them all. Every single written correspondance I've ever recieved, I have- because I think fan mail is evidence of a well-lived life. It's a snap-shot of a moment in time and we get to keep it. Like I said, I've recently discovered that I'm incredibly sentimental... annoying. With the exception of a particularly soul-crushing ex-love, of whom I ceremoniously burned every reminder, love letter, poem, gift, in an attempt to rid myself of his toxin and relentless grip on my rational mind, I've got everything anyone has ever written me. That shit takes a lot of time to sort through. And a lot of wine.

I've made peace with most of my failed friendships and relationships. I look fondly on the boy I first fell in love with and gave my virginity. There's a group of fleeting, yet poignant, characters whom I've discovered on summer adventures and short-term living situations, and that I will never doubt their importance in my life. After all, they cared enough to put something into words for me. I accept that not everyone who was once important can always be important. I know we've got to grow, and not everyone does that at the same pace. We've only got the capacity to keep track and emotionally invest in so many people.

But some things still sting.

So, amid feeling a boost at reading the people I love and have loved telling me how awesome I am, I felt heavy. I can't purge this stuff. And I can't ignore the falling out I had with a person who largely supported and encouraged me through some of the roughest times I've ever had. I think it may be time to chug some of my pride and break the now two-year silence. The thing is,  I'm worried that it's too late and some things can't be fixed.

As I sat in my room last night next to my now-empty wine glass, surrounded by what would probably look like a disaster area of junk to any sane person, I made the decision to reach out and try to repair something that once seemed easy to walk away from. You never know until you try, right?

XO Sara


  1. I'm riding the sappy, sentimental train with you, kiddo. Like, I have never met a ticket stub that I don't like. Treasure. And this shit started early. I think I have one from my birthday party at the circus (2nd grade) and also from New Kids on the Block and every football game I went to in college. And I have a great memory, too. Why is that not enough?

  2. EXACTLY, why isn't having a kick-ass memory enough!?