Wendy (Tritton) Troquille: Memorial Service Information

Friends and family, I thought I would make a quick blog post so everyone will have a public resource they can link to anyone.

Wendy at age 20

My sister, Jill Wendilyn "Wendy" (Tritton) Troquille, was killed in a head-on collision on Monday, April 29, 2013.

Fortunately, she did not suffer—she was killed instantly. She was 46 years old. Wendy’s passing is exactly five months after our mom’s sudden passing on Thursday, November 29, 2012.

I am in the process of writing obituaries that will appear in the Van, Van Zandt, and Dallas newspapers.

I am also writing a eulogy that I will deliver during her memorial service.

Her service will be in Athens, TX. Her son, Aaron Grigsby, is a member of a very loving and strong church community, and they have graciously offered to host the memorial service.

We gladly honored Wendy’s wish to be cremated, and the family made those arrangements yesterday.

I’ll be back with more, but for now, I wanted to keep this short to convey the important information. Any and all are welcome at the service.

Service Information

Service date: Friday, May 3^rd, 2013

Time: 11am

Location: Cornerstone Baptist Church, 3710 NE Loop 7, Athens, Texas, 75751, 903-677-5407

Here is a link to the church’s website

Here is a link to Google Maps

Some GPS may read the address as 3710 NE Loop 317 S

Immediately following the service: Soulman’s BBQ has made an amazing offer to cater a meal right after the service.

To everyone who has reached out to our family with wishes, prayers, condolences, and offers, we thank you. It means so, so much. I feel the love coming from all directions.

I ask that you keep them coming. We are all still very, very much in shock, and your continued prayers and thoughts are deeply appreciated.

We Are All Doing Our Best—Including Me

I recently saw this quote pass by my Facebook feed:

“…Remember that everyone is doing the best they can from their own level of consciousness.” – Deepak Chopra

I had a major reaction brewing to something that happened this morning.

I knew exactly what this guy was doing, as he stole my parking spot and then glared at me righteously. Of course, I was in a hurry, and he (clearly) was not.

He had a good laugh as I hopped out of the car and ran inside Target, intent on picking up stuff for lunch before my 9am meeting.

Then, a thought crossed my mind.

That guy is doing the best he can right now.

I thought back to thirty minutes earlier, when a guy cut me off getting onto the highway. I let him in. I actually slowed down to a stop and let him in.

That’s pretty different for me…

But I noticed something else, too. After I let that guy get in front of me, the guy behind me let someone else get in front of him. His bumper had practically kissed mine just seconds earlier.

I wondered if he saw my gesture and decided to do something different, too.

Recognizing that everyone is actually doing their best at any given moment helps me feel a lot calmer. It means that I’m nicer to everyone around me, too, because I don’t have the chance to get wrapped up in whether or not someone is doing the right thing (which really means, are they doing it my way?). It isn’t judgment flowing out from all of my pores—it’s compassion.

I’ve tried incorporating this thought into my day to day life lately, and it seems to be working.

Of course, the person I use it on the most is myself. Especially since my mom died.

In some ways, I feel like her death hit the reset button on a lot of the hard soul-work, personal growth, and emotional evolution I’ve traversed over the past three years.

I could spend hours listing all the ways I have failed in the last four months. All the mistakes I’ve made. All the things I should or shouldn’t have said. And of course, let’s not even talk about how generally reactionary I’ve felt. And the instant I try to resist feeling the grief, my old control issues rear their ugly heads (yes, that’s a multi-headed monster) and then at some point, I turn into a blubbering mess, cry it out, and feel somewhat better.

No—better isn’t really the right word… maybe just open. Yep, that’s it—open.

I have so many daily (hourly!) opportunities to beat myself up.

(I am an expert to the extent that I think perhaps a framed certificate might be in order—if only a notion like that didn’t glorify it.)

My boyfriend says he isn’t sure he’s known anyone who’s as hard on themselves as I am.

So, yes—I have this problem of being really hard on myself. Don’t we all do that, though? Don’t you?

Well, one unexpected blessing I’m discovering in all of this grief is that I pretty quickly grow exhausted of beating myself up. I’m finding that I really just don’t have the energy for it.

The truth is…

I am doing the best I can in this moment.

Perhaps that is not my Very Best Ever. In fact, I’m certain it isn’t.

But for this moment—it is enough.

And there is something deeply, eternally comforting about being enough. We are all enough, of course—but when I can truly rest in that feeling, when I allow enough to sink into the marrow of my bones, I feel a beautiful and utterly pure sense of relief.

And today, that is enough.

A Message From Above

One of the things my mom loved most was her Southern Living cookbooks. Each year, they publish the Annual Recipes volume, and my mom purchased them, year after year, since the inception in 1979.

She of course purchased the 2012 volume, and although we haven’t actually talked about it, I suspect at least one of us in the family will continue this tradition.

Over the years, Mama marked quite a few recipes. Each holiday season, she labored over the menu for weeks—paging through the Southern Living cookbooks, marking recipes, taking notes on a yellow legal pad, and finally emerging with the complete menu. I remember this tradition around Thanksgiving and Christmas time each year, for longer than I’ve been alive.

So, glancing at that full shelf of cookbooks in my parents’ house instantly causes a flashback of memories.

Yet another reason why it’s difficult to go to my parents’ house. She’s everywhere there—from the books to the kitchen, from the bedroom to the very lamps carefully chosen for each room.

In some ways, it feels like forever since she passed away.

Truthfully, it feels like it happened last night.

Nearly four months have passed, now. That seems like a long time, doesn’t it? Maybe.

I’m not sure why, but the last couple of weeks have been the toughest grief weeks I’ve had in months. I’ve felt needy, whiny, desperate, and forlorn. I've felt exhausted and weary, and because of that, I've had very (very) little energy. I’ve cried, I’ve been less than mature, and basically, I’ve pined for my mama.

The sense of loss is somehow deepening as the reality becomes more permanent. The sadness is somehow expanding as I step more into acceptance. And the darkness is somehow darker than I ever imagined it could be.

And yet, I’ve felt her close this week, too. I wasn’t sure why.

I checked the mail yesterday morning. I was running late, and I’d forgotten my glasses. I figured that since I’d forgotten to check the mail the night before, I’d check it on my way back upstairs.

I didn’t expect to receive anything so transformative.

I got a little note from Oxmoor House.

I instantly recognized that publisher—they publish the Southern Living Annual Recipes cookbooks. I stared at the note for a moment, and I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. A lump suddenly sprang into my throat.

I somehow knew that reading the contents of this note would change my day.

I opened the note and slowly read that I would soon be receiving a Southern Living cookbook.

I must have read my mom’s name over and over again. I stared at her name printed on that note for what may have amounted to a full minute—as if staring at her name harder would bring her back.

I threw the note down and said several confused curses under my breath, and I went on my way—my face already hot with tears streaming down.

I cried all the way to my destination, and when I got to the parking lot, I sat there with tears running down my face for a few minutes longer.

I even posted it to Facebook.

I didn’t know what to think, feel, or do. I was so confused that I wanted to call my dad right away—but, I didn’t, because it was only about 8:30 in the morning, and he might not have been up yet.

So I sat in wonder… at how such a thing could happen. How could she know? How did this note land in my mail box at precisely the time I needed it?

She didn’t always understand the way I needed to hear that she loved me, but she expressed it in so many other ways… ways that I didn’t even begin to truly get until after she died.

This is one of those ways—sharing her love of those cookbooks and Southern Living recipes with her daughters.

And the timing really couldn’t have been better, either. I needed a line of connection to her… I needed some sign that she hadn’t completely gone. I needed to know that even though her body is gone from this earth—I still have a Mama.

Message received. Loud and clear.

What’s even more beautiful is that after I posted the message on Facebook yesterday, I could feel my whole being wrapped in love and prayer and peace.

I calmed down. The tears subsided.

I slept hard last night—one of the most restful sleeps I’ve had in a while.

This morning, I woke up with a profound sense of gratefulness… a depth of which I wasn’t aware could exist. I am grateful for this life. For all that I have experienced, for all of those who have thought good things for me, said prayers for me, been there for me… grateful for David, grateful for my family, grateful for everything.

Thank you, Mama.

I love you, too.

Still Here

So, I’m here—and I’ve thought about updating my blog with something besides grief talk, but today, this is where I am, so this is what you get.

Since I lost my mom suddenly only about four months ago, I often want to speak up when I see or hear someone struggling with their parental relationships. Especially if that relationship is between a mother and a daughter.

I am lucky, because my mom and I resolved our biggest issue (which all boils down to pride, really) a few years before she died.

Many don’t get that chance.

But I feel this strange compulsion that I’m having to fight back—it’s one where I want to approach whichever party is doing the talking, about how frustrating or hurtful or sad the relationship is, and I want to say things like… 

• Do whatever you need to do to fix it.
• One day they’ll be gone—and then it’s too late.
• Set the sword down.
• Have you tried humility?
• Have you tried setting aside your pride?

And then I quickly get myself in check, before I make a total ass out of myself.

I wasn’t expecting to have this kind of compulsion. I guess it’s a save-the-world mentality, or maybe it’s because I would do anything to have my mom back, and it feels childish and stupid to see other people mistreat the ones they love so much, and I bet they wouldn’t take those people for granted if they suddenly died, so why can’t they stop taking them for granted right now?

And then I have to walk away, because it’s still sad, it’s still hard, it’s still devastating.

I put myself on guilt trips for not calling my dad every day anymore. For about the first month or six weeks or however long it was, we spoke daily, whether I called him or he called me. We both needed that—somehow it was easier to check on each other than it was to check on ourselves.

But that immediate emergency time is gone, and now no one is offering condolences because it’s old news (to everyone but me, my sister, and my dad) and we’re all just supposed to move on with our lives.

Or something.

But there’s no “right” way to do grief, and for me to judge myself or anyone else is a waste of time and energy. And I know that, but I still do it (until I realize I’m doing it, and then I stop myself).

I read an article recently that talks about emerging research showing that cells from children stay in the mother’s brain for the remainder of the mother’s life. (It’s here, if you’re interested.)

What that means is that a part of me quite literally died when she died.

The thought of that is unbearable…

But it’s also true.

I want to fix it all. I want the pain to go away, I want to stop missing her, I want to have just one more conversation with her. I want to hear her voice, smell her, see her hands… something—anything—to connect with her again.

And it just won’t happen. There’s not a thing I can do about it, except try to fix all the other people around me with broken relationships, and that doesn’t work either because you can’t fix anyone and it’s not only pointless to try… it’s downright arrogant.

Everyone is on their own path, and for me to attempt to intervene or judge is wasted energy—not to mention, people don’t like it when you try to fix them.

So because I can’t do that (nor would I try, in any other place other than the inside of my head), I have to deal with my own emotions, my own life, my own stuff.

Shit.

It’s just a weird time. Some days are better than others. Sometimes, I break down into tears because of something I would really like to ask my mom. Sometimes, the reality hits me all over again, and there I am standing at the hospital with the chaplain, my dad, and David.

I am at least going to work every day and I am mostly a productive member of society. Whole days go by when I don't cry. And even though I am grieving, I can also laugh and feel joy, and I most definitely appreciate where I am and what and who I have.

On the flip side... I am behind on a very long list of “to-do” items, not the least of which are thank you notes for all of the amazing things that people did for my family when my mom first died.

When I think about that… I immediately feel overwhelmed. Writing thank you notes means addressing that that time has passed. It means it’s real. It means the initial shock has worn off, and I am accepting this new reality.

And because I can’t seem to do anything half-ass, I am not one who would write a non-specific note for one of the most deeply edifyingly excruciating experiences of my life.

So, no, I haven’t yet written any thank you notes.

But if you think, for even one iota of a second, that I am not grateful… you’re wrong.

I am grateful. And what's strange is how the depth of my gratitude has grown over the last four months. 

This life is precious. As far as I know, it's the only one we get. 

Even though I feel sad in this moment, I am still doing and feeling everything possible to life my life wholeheartedly. 

Some days, that's a little messy. 

Today is one of those days.

And that's okay.

Happy Birthday, Mama

This morning started out much like every other morning this week. I struggled to get out of bed. I felt sad, but other than that—ok. I even felt a little numb this morning as I got ready… uncertain of what this day would bring.

Today is my mom’s birthday. She would have turned 68.

As I told my dad earlier, it feels like I’m stuck in this terrible, never-ending dream, and I keep waking up, hoping it’s going to end, and it just… doesn’t.

On many levels, her death still seems surreal. It hasn’t sunk in yet. It hasn’t become stark reality, it hasn’t been carved in the stone of recent history.

We’re all still reeling.

And today, I made my way to work—confident I would be able to make it through the day.

I stepped into a meeting in the conference room. Six women gathered around the conference table as we called in to speak to our client.

At one point, the client asked a question and we needed to unmute the phone line.

Instead of hitting the mute button, I accidentally hit the button to call our president’s office. And then, once we realized what I had done, somebody else hit a button and it ended up dropping us off the call with the client.

I was immediately embarrassed, and I felt emotions thundering in my belly and threatening to shoot up through my throat and out through my eyes in the form of tears and wails. I crawled under the table as everyone guffawed—it was a hilarious scene, and I saw and felt the hilarity of it, but I could not fight the emotions welling up from deep within.

I sat back in my chair, for a split second believing I was ok.

But grief is a bitch, and before I knew it, my skin was suddenly hot with giant tears streaming down my face, and I could feel the suffocating gasps of pain coming.

I fled the room and ran into an office and closed the door, collapsing against the table.

I sort of composed myself after a little while. The meeting finished. My co-workers offered condolences and reassurances.

I tried to come back to some semblance of ok, but I felt like a shell the thickness of a soap bubble trying to contain the nuclear explosion already going on inside of me. I walked around, enjoying seeing everyone’s festive, ugly sweaters and cute Christmas ornament earrings. I tried to talk myself into searching for some enjoyment with the festivities that we were about to experience—the big reveal for secret Santas, and then our Christmas lunch, followed by early release from work.

But I returned to my desk, where I sat, tears running down my face, wondering how I was going to get through this day.

Truthfully, there was only one place I wanted to be: by my dad’s side.

I called Daddy on the way, asking him to make some coffee. His voice immediately lifted when he realized I was coming over.

We hugged and sat, watching a couple of TV shows as he finished breakfast and I sipped coffee.

And then I asked him what he was planning to do today. He said he was planning to decorate for Christmas, but he just couldn’t seem to find the motivation.

So, we did it together.

We put up the tree, again going over the history of some of the decorations and how much they meant to us, just as we had done for many years before now. 

We put out stockings and a few other odds and ends—marveling at just how much Christmas décor was left… just how much we weren’t putting out.

What can I say… my mom loved Christmas and Christmas décor.

We went out on the town in his new truck to Michael’s, Walgreens, and Target. We took our time running errands, poking around for some time in both Michael’s and Target.

And then we went back to the house and ate dinner.

It turned out to be a leisurely day. A better day than what we both started with.

We stood at my car, hugging, and he thanked me for coming over. I told him there was nowhere else I wanted to be today, that I didn’t just do it for him—I did it for me, too. I felt so lost this morning, and the only place I wanted to run to was to him.

He needed me today, and I needed him. And we turned a shitty day into a better one, and we managed to inject some color into this rather gray day. I am grateful.

Happy birthday, Mama. We love you and miss you, more than words can say...

Mama's Passing

My favorite picture of Mama.

The last 36 hours have been, in a word—surreal.

It all happened so fast.

It’s important to note that my mom had been on dialysis since 2006, and she had a lot of other health problems, too. For all the health problems she had, she managed to stay positive and upbeat most of the time.

On Thanksgiving, she seemed “off.” I mentioned it to my boyfriend, and I tried to get her to talk about it, but she wouldn’t. She said there was nothing wrong—she just wasn’t feeling well.

But Thanksgiving was a great day. We all enjoyed it immensely, each of us regaling each other with stories from our childhoods and antics we pulled. Lots of laughter and a laid-back day with good food and family connection. You really couldn’t have asked for a better holiday.

On Monday, my mom called me to tell me she had heard the “sad news” that I gave away all of my Cabbage Patch Kids. She raised quite the stink about it and made every attempt to make me feel guilty. (I actually haven’t gotten them to their new owners yet, but they’re in bags in my apartment, waiting.) I was shocked at her strange behavior though. It threw me for a loop that she was making such a stink about something that really doesn’t matter—toys she bought me over 25 years ago.

For what it’s worth, I kept and will always plan the keep the first one she gave me. I remember that well—it was one of the first Cabbage Patch Kids made, and she went to many stores to try and find one. She finally did find one, and she stood there by her car, waiting for me to come out of church camp one summer. I walked out of the building, and there she was with Christina, the Cabbage Patch Kid.

We hung up, and I was totally puzzled.

I didn’t realize that would be the last time I would hear her voice. That was the last conversation we had.

The instant I realized that, I felt deeply thankful for our family tradition of always saying I love you at the end of every phone conversation.

My mom went into the hospital on Wednesday, when they couldn’t give her dialysis. She ended up in the ER and immediately checked in and taken to ICU. Her veins were tiny, and they struggled to get the dialysis to take, but they tried multiple channels and eventually got her stabilized.

The details are fuzzy right now, because I didn’t even know she was in the hospital until yesterday.

But basically Wednesday night, she was stable. Thursday morning around 7:15am, all hell broke loose. I knew nothing about this, and my dad didn’t either—he slept through several of the doctor’s phone calls. He woke up around 9am, and as soon as he heard the messages he got dressed and went straight to the hospital.

They ran a CAT scan and discovered she had a colon infection that had gone septic.

She also had a heart arrhythmia, which can cause a lot of problems when other things are piled on top of that issue.

Then the infection got into her blood. They couldn’t give her fresh blood quickly enough, so her blood became toxic, and her heart gave out.

She coded one time just before Daddy called me.

I got the call right at noon. Daddy sounded weary and weak. I had no idea of anything that was happening, of course. I had never heard that tone of voice in my dad before, and I knew right away that it was serious.

I called my sister as I packed up my stuff at work. I let them know what was going on, stopped by Jimmy John’s to grab sandwiches for myself and my dad—knowing he probably hadn’t eaten at all that day—and headed straight to the hospital.

I was too late.

By the time I had gotten there, she had coded three more times, and they couldn’t bring her back the last time.

Telling this story is surreal. I wasn’t aware it was happening.

When I got to the hospital, Daddy told me.

I got to sit with her for a few minutes in the hospital room, which was oddly quiet, even though her room was right in front of the nurse’s station. I talked to her and wished she would come back. I asked her why she had to go, and all I heard back was, “I was just so tired.”

The next hours are a complete blur, but at some point once I realized the family and most of my close friends knew, I posted it to Facebook.

I have been overwhelmed by the love and support, the prayers, the kind words, and all of the offers of help.

The house was full last night, and that was the best that any of us could ask for. My most precious friend Veronica brought dinner for the whole family, and we were so grateful—none of us had even thought about dinner… or eating.

I struggled to fall asleep last night, as reality faded from surreal to more real.

This morning, we made the funeral arrangements. All of those decisions made me dizzy and completely, utterly, and deeply drained.

In some ways, none of those decisions matter, because she’s gone, and it feels like we’re mostly making the decisions for our own sanity. But really, those decisions are important—after all, we are responsible for preserving her memory and we are responsible for everyone’s last impression of her, before we lay her to rest.

I have so many words, and yet—none at all. I’m quickly passing through moments of numbness, normality, anger, deep sadness, and a level of grief I have never felt in my whole life.

No relationship is more complex, intimate, or impossible to describe than that of a mother and daughter.

The picture that will print with her obituary.

To know I will never again get to hug her, smell her, hear her voice… to know she’ll never meet David’s kids or truly know David… the things I’ll never be able to ask her, the questions I’ll never have answered, the words I’ll never get to say—it’s all too much to think about, but those thoughts show up in random moments, and just like I did in the divorce… I am riding the wave.

Thank you for your continued support and words of encouragement, your prayers, your offers of help. I am not sure if I’m going to blog here about the grief wave, or stories, or frustrations, or whatever—or if I’m going to keep quiet, like I have for the last several months (sorry)… or if it will be something in-between.

I’m going to do whatever needs to happen. Whatever will keep me connected, at least on some level, to sanity—that is what I’m going to do.

Mama’s obituary will run tomorrow (Sat. Dec. 1) and Sunday (Dec. 2) in the Dallas Morning News, with her picture:

Jill Johnson Tritton 

Born December 14, 1944 in Dallas, TX and passed away November 29, 2012 in Plano, TX. She is survived by her loving husband of over 46 years, David Tritton; daughter and son-in-law, Jill Wendilyn and Kevin Troquille; daughter and partner, Linda Lee Tritton and David Hoffman; grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She is also survived by her brother, Reilly Johnson, as well as other relatives and descendants. Visitation will be Sunday, December 2, 2012 from 3pm to 5pm at Restland Funeral Home. A Graveside service will be held on Monday, December 3, 2012 at 10am Restland Memorial Park. In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to The National Kidney Foundation.

Purging the Stuff, Not the Memories

I’ve come across some cool stuff while going through all these boxes from my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood.

I discovered my Cabbage Patch Kids (and almost immediately found new homes for them), some old Legos, and the very first Fossil watch I ever owned (which is unfortunately all corroded from leaving a spent battery in it for too many years).

I have already warned my boyfriend about the forthcoming Beanie Babies. I have a huge box stuffed full of nothing but Beanie Babies. I can’t wait to give those suckers away to good homes.

(Just as soon as I find them.)

So, last night, I came across a box that had a bunch of notebooks and folders from college. One of the folders was a packet from the Alpha Phi Omega national convention in 1996, which was held in Phoenix, Arizona.

Inside the packet, I came across a huge collection of folded pieces of paper.

I was utterly confused.

I began unfolding the papers and reading their contents. I read paper after paper, until finally, it hit me.

Suddenly, a wave of memory hit me as the whole 1996 convention flashed back into my mind. I read every single note and laughed. Some of them were inside jokes I’ve long since forgotten. Some were from people I still remember, and other notes just struck me as peculiarly funny.

A few of the notes contained pleas to buy t-shirts like what we were wearing (the front of the shirt said, “We do service, what the hell do you do?”)

And a lot of the notes discussed party logistics, because, let’s face it—if you’re a college kid going to a decent hotel with 1500 other college kids from all across the country… there will be parties. 

Good parties.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading those notes and strolling down that long and twisted lane of memories. Those notes even jogged my memory on some of the details of parliamentary procedure (sometimes called Robert’s Rules of Order).

I was one of the voting delegates, which means I had the honor of sitting on the legislation floor, along with over 200 other chapters from across the country.

So as voting delegates, we could not randomly get up and walk around, we had to wait for breaks. If we needed something, we used a runner to pass a note to the peanut gallery, asking someone out there to go get us whatever we needed.

For those not familiar with parliamentary procedure, the peanut gallery is the space behind delegate seats where the general public can listen in. If anyone in the peanut gallery had strong opinions about legislation on the floor, they could send a note to their delegates. Sort of like real-time lobbying.

Any delegate could also pass notes to another delegate on the voting floor.

Are you getting this picture?

Imagine a bunch of college kids sitting in a giant hotel ball room, with runners constantly on the move, passing notes, t-shirts, money, sodas, snacks, and whatever else amongst the peanut gallery and delegates.

It was actually pretty cool, but it did get boring to sit there all day if the legislation you cared about had come and gone.

I loved coming across those notes and having that sudden flash of memory.

I also threw the notes away, along with all the other accoutrements from that convention.

(Go me!)

I’ll never forget how important Alpha Phi Omega was to me. It gave me a sense of purpose, back when I didn’t feel I had one. My favorite role was liaising with other chapters and building the connection between our chapter at Vanderbilt and other chapters at schools in our region.

APO was so important to me that I became a life member during my senior year in college. I was also awarded a Distinguished Service Key, which is the highest honor a chapter can give a member. It's given for outstanding service to the fraternity. 

I’ve done absolutely nothing with APO since those days, but through that co-ed service fraternity, I found my friends and a sense of purpose. I learned and then taught leadership skills. I learned the depth of value of community service, and I learned that one person really can make a difference. I even organized an entire weekend convention, including presenters and a whole host of other tiny little details. It nearly broke me, but it’s one of the best experiences I ever had back in those days, because it showed me a glimpse of what I was (and am) really made of.

(And it's not completely out of place to mention that the theme for that conference's t-shirt was, "You'll love the stuff we're made of." Yes. We stole the Pizza Hut tag line from those days... oops.)

I’ll always have these memories. And now that I’m finally going through all of this crap and throwing it away, I can record the memories in my own way, so I won’t forget them again. It's refreshing to finally understand that I don't need to hang on to all of this stuff as physical representation of the memories. 

I have to say that although this cleansing and letting go process is not easy… it's not all bad, either.

Another Round of Letting Go

I have things. So…many…things.

I have yearbooks from junior high, high school, and college.

I have stacks and stacks of magazines that I’ve never read. Oprah, Real Simple, and some jewelry and writing magazines. I held on to them because I just knew I’d read them “someday”.

I have letters from people who are no longer in my life.

I have clothes from high school. Concert T-shirts for musicians I no longer care about. Yellowed old T-shirts from various activities, groups, and events from my high school and college years.

I have paraphernalia from all phases of my life: papers, drawings, and books from childhood; toys, paperwork, and wall hangings from old jobs; stacks and stacks of photos, waiting to be sorted and digitized.

Lots of things… just waiting.

Waiting to be organized, sorted, discarded, remembered, and finally—forgotten.

I am a sentimental person, and I always have been. I don’t see that changing anytime soon. But at what point does holding on to old things burgeon from sentimental into the realm of narcissistic?

How long do I need to keep all of these things around me? What is the purpose? To remind me of who I was, or where I’ve come from? To remind me of things long forgotten, of moments I can no longer place, of history I don’t even remember living?

How much longer am I going to cart this stuff from one domicile to the next? How much more money will I pay movers to move all this crap? At what point does it turn from momentous and meaningful to downright self-centered, even selfish?

These are not small questions.

But the confession I have yet to admit is rather embarrassing.

When I moved into my two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment in March 2011, the movers filled up the entire second bedroom with my crap. They moved over 100 boxes, in addition to the large pieces of furniture. In addition to my clothes. In addition to shoes.

Over 100 boxes of stuff.

What can you even say to that?

Yes, I downsized from a 1550 square foot house to an apartment of 862 square feet. Yes, I got divorced, so it was not only the splitting apart of stuff, but the splitting apart of my life and his life. And, yes, the minute my ex and I had moved into the house in 2002, my parents had lovingly dropped off over 20 boxes of stuff from my childhood they’d been storing in their garage. And, no, I hadn’t touched a single one of those boxes in the 9 years that we lived there.

And I could probably write an entire book about the actual split, but when I think about cleaning out that house, and how much stuff I ended up leaving in the house, it kind of astounds me. I even left my wedding dress there, atop a very large amoeba-like pile of trash bags stuffed to the gills with clothes that no longer fit me because I’d lost a significant amount of weight.

The things you do when you’re desperate, sick, exhausted, out of time, and out of patience…

What’s left, though, is quite impressive, which is to say it still overwhelms me.

So now, it is my task to go through all of these things. To sort, discard, donate, sell, give away, or organize all of this… stuff.

I’m not the most organized or patient person, and when I decide something has to go—I have to do it immediately, or I lose my momentum. So I may have the best intentions of selling something, or giving something to a specific organization, or scanning pictures just so someone can see whatever it was from 20 years ago that they probably won’t remember anyway—but when it comes down to it, I at least know myself well enough to admit I’m not terribly disciplined, organized, or patient. I tend to get bogged down in these kinds of tasks, and it drives me nuts to the point of quitting.

And besides, posting stuff on eBay takes patience and time. Giving away old magazines and toys through freecycle or whatever other venue takes time, effort, and energy. And patience. And dealing with complete strangers, who may or may not show up to retrieve said items.

Maybe if I had an assistant who could take care of all that stuff for me, I would do it.

But since I’m just a regular person… I need to make sure I only bite off what I can chew—without choking.

This is as good of a time as any to mention that I’m quite good with space. Specifically, strategically cramming lots of things into small spaces, like suitcases or closets. I am my father's daughter, after all, and he was in the Navy. He taught me how to pack for a trip, how to fold clothes to take up minimal space and not wrinkle, and of course, he taught me how to put sheets on the bed with perfect hospital corners.

When I moved into my apartment in March of 2011, I had boxes everywhere. Boxes from childhood. Boxes from high school. Boxes from college. Boxes from my marriage. Boxes, boxes, everywhere—when I moved in, they covered the whole floor and piled up as tall as my forehead in the back bedroom.

When I first moved in, I completely filled up the two decently sized closets in the back bedroom with boxes. The rest remained on the floor, and I went through some of them but quickly got overwhelmed and lost my momentum.

(It seems all of my stuff actually chokes me… and breaking free of it may offer a kind of freedom I can’t yet grasp.

I’m not quite there yet.)

Every time I walk into that bedroom, I think about those two closets, stuffed full of boxes I need to go through.

Up until this past Sunday, they had remained mostly untouched.

I know as well as anyone that you can’t move forward and allow new things to come into your life until you let go of the old.

So, on Sunday, I began the emotional gutting of my apartment.

I went through five boxes from my old lives. Letters, stuffed animals from childhood, photo albums from high school and college, old clothes. Five boxes to remind me of all the things I have never dealt with or discarded.

It was so much more than that, of course. It was also an emotional gutting to my psyche. The thing that did me in was finding a letter from my dad from nearly 15 years ago, where he was upset that I was late on my car payments to the point it was hitting against my parents' credit. He was worried he couldn't keep it from my mom any longer.

It hit me like a pointy object jabbing me in the heart just how much I've disappointed and hurt people I dearly love because of my selfishness. Not just my mom and dad, but my college roommate, family, and other friends who have given me so much… and what have I given?

I couldn't throw that letter away. The sad thought entered my mind as I looked at photos of Daddy from almost 20 years ago, how healthy and young he looked... and I freaked out at the thought of throwing away one of the only things I have with his handwriting, because he won't always be around.

After I finished bawling into my boyfriend’s arms, he told me I’d done enough for one day, and for once—I listened. I heard him, and I agreed.

Letting go of things that I once held so close to me is hard. But when I look at each item and can’t place why I have it, a memory surrounding it, or a current or near-future use for it… why keep it?

I know I’ve only gone through five boxes, but it’s a start. A good start.

(I am working towards a goal, here. A goal that I don’t want to disclose yet… but I promise that when the time is right—you’ll know.)

In the meantime, though…

I am learning to be gentler and tenderer with myself. I am learning to honor my emotions—whatever they are. And I am keeping only safe people around me while doing this emotional archeological dig.

Each box promises new surprises and new challenges. I quickly lost count of the number of times I said, “Why do I even have this?” on Sunday, and that was for five measly boxes.

I still have many more to clear out. Many more to sort through and decide the fate of their contents.

And believe me when I say that the whole theme of letting go isn’t lost on me here. I’ve let go of nearly everything in the last year or so, and I understand that letting go of most of these things is profound—and that is part of the reason why it’s also profoundly difficult. I realize that when I’m on the other side of this, I’ll feel lighter, better, and all that jazz.

Right now, though…

This isn’t easy.

But I seem to be one of those people who is never content to remain idle or complacent. I must always be moving, and hopefully that movement is forward. I’m reminded of a rather clever and totally true bit that my friend Mark has said: consistent and constant personal growth requires daily discomfort.

It doesn’t have to be monumental every day—that would be too exhausting.

But it should be a stretch. It should at times be hard. And sometimes, it should be easier.

I am learning to be more fluid as I grow older. I am learning that it isn’t all about me, and if I truly want to reach higher, do better, and continue to grow, it’s going to be a little uncomfortable.

Another thing that makes me uncomfortable is asking for help. But I am doing that now…

If you have successfully done this sort of task before, and/or if you are an organized person brimming with ideas that would be easy and quick for a non-organized person to execute, please feel free to offer up some suggestions to make it feel slightly less like my heart being scraped over a cheese grater.

(And if you’re thinking of suggesting, “Just throw them all away!” I appreciate it, but if I had done that, I would have tossed out several irreplaceable and very meaningful things that have been mixed in with the randomness… things I thought I had lost forever, and after rediscovering them, I wept with joy. So tossing out all of these boxes without even glancing at their contents is not the best option at this point—although if this drags on for too long, I may resort to exactly that.)