The People Behind My Eyes

Lost

Thursday, April 27, 2006

4:14:07 AM

A few years ago I was in the hospital having a filter put in my heart to prevent more blood clots from traveling to my heart. When it was time to leave they told me they couldn’t find my shoes. They were the absolute only pair I had so I was kinda freaked out about it. They said they would get me another pair but to me, that wasn’t the point. They lost MY shoes. They were gone and I dint even know it until the last minute. I worried that they would give me an ugly pair of tennis shoes, something my mother would wear. What they gave me looked brand spanking new. They were colours I like too, gray and blue. They gave me these shoes back in 2003. I’ve had several pairs of shoes since then. I don’t even wear those anymore but I still have them in the closet. I can’t seem to throw them away.

A few weeks back I purchased new bras. I’d been sewing the old ones back together for months. They were getting so bad that I had to re-sew them almost weekly. It seems logical that I would celebrate as I tossed them in the trash but that’s not so. I can’t seem to throw them away. It’s not like I would wear them again but I can’t seem to throw them away. I got to wondering why on earth it was so important to keep something I can’t even wear anymore or that I don’t have to wear anymore. Someone in the back of my head said, “Because we worry that someone will come and take the new ones away.” We really worry about that.

Nobody’s going to come and take back the bras that we purchased with our own money. It’s not that though, it’s the fact that we like them and we worry about loosing them in some unexpected way. The bars that aren’t worth anything, that have more patches than original material…those seem to be Plan B for when someone comes to repossess the fully paid for new bras.

When we were little if we showed that we liked a particular item that item ended up being a target for the next unjust punishment. It got to the point that we didn’t say if we liked this or that. We didn’t express joy or even contempt for anything. If we had a flat affect then it was hard to tell what they should target. I had a Mickey Mouse glass that I liked to drink out of. I was standing in my grandmother’s drive way when it occurred to me that if I didn’t get rid of the glass myself then I’d just be waiting around for them to tell me to throw it away. I broke the glass right there on her driveway. I think that was the very first time I destroyed something so that someone else couldn’t, so that they couldn’t catch me off guard and take something that I liked or loved. I also started with Plan B for everything. When the mother realized that I liked Corey Hart she would come in my room and take the albums. I had back up copies of them. I had back up copies of my artwork, of poetry, of my music of photos of everything imaginable so that if someday she stormed in and took something I could almost smile inside because she lost, she didn’t get over on me like she thought she did. I could still put my headphones on and listen to the song Never Surrender or Chase The Sun without her even knowing it. I still had my poetry; I still had a lot of things even though she thought she’d gotten rid of them.

Now that I think about it, I don’t believe that she knows I like sunflowers. I don’t know if she knows anything about me at all other than that I hate the ground she walks on and the ground she could potentially walk on. I don’t now if she knows what I like or dislike what colours I wear or don’t wear. I seem to remember these things about her though. She’s not even standing in front of me threatening to toss this or that but I still feel like I could lose things that are important to me. it’s crazy really, that I would keep the old torn up bras and the old tennis shoes as Plan B just in case she steps back out of nowhere to take away things that I need or like or love. I just don’t want to lose it. In reality, everything I hold onto like this has already lost its joy and its positive influence in my life. It just sits in the bottom of the drawer where I stumble on it from time to time. I touch it then sit it back down knowing full well I just can’t toss it. My mind cramps, stumbles on old memories and I realize that I’ve lost. If I can’t toss it then for that moment I’ve lost and she’s won. She’s not standing here, she’s not going to come and take the new shoes or the new bras. Plan B with the old stuff isn’t necessary anymore. Even so, I’m not driven to my feet and to the trash can. It’s another example of old coping skills that are ineffective in the present.

Joan of Arc