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Ex on the Shelf

A few months ago when I booked my ticket to come home for the holidays, my mother tenderly and carefully asked: “You think when you’re home, maybe you could go through your room and get rid of some of your stuff?”

At the time, I quickly agreed and apologized for keeping so much at the house I grew up in for my parents to look after. While my mom and dad will both promise me that I’ll have a place in their home until I get married (and even after, if I need it) – I know they want to transform my bedroom into something more than a glorified storage unit.

Yesterday, as I went through piles of clothes, boxes full of old notebooks, letters and cards from high school and college, makeup that expired years ago, books I haven’t read in years, and writings that date back to the 1990s – I came across something I had long forgotten about while gallivanting in New York.

The classic ex-boyfriend box.

I’ve heard them called “Love Boxes”, “Remember When Boxes” , “Past Flame Memorabilia” – but inevitably, every single friend I’ve had or just woman I’ve known has some collection of stuff from a man she once dated.

When I pulled down the box, opened it, and discovered what it was – I immediately pulled away. In year’s past, my ex-boyfriend box had been a part of my room I only teetered with in those sad, desperate moments of being a single-something when I wanted to remember what it felt like to be in love. When I wanted to smell an old t-shirt, that while I’m sure lost the scent of the man who gave it to me many moons ago, somehow still reminded me what it was like to be in that comfortable nook. It would be the item I’d use to excuse crying or remind me that while I “simply can’t find love” that I have in fact, been in love, and if I just hold onto these sentiments, I’ll never forget what it was like to be romantically happy.

I sat on the edge of my bed for a little while, gazing at the box, all four flaps open revealing the corner of a blue t-shirt that I knew was from Mr. Idea. I thought about my journey, my experiences in New York, and the growth I’ve been feeling, and knew I didn’t want to willingly push myself into a crying fest.

I mean, if I’m doing a 12-step program to recovery – I can’t purposefully take a few steps backward, can I? C’mon now.

I looked over at the box, racking my brain to try and determine what exactly was inside of it. If it didn’t include any of the men from the city – it was surely jammed-full of every pre-Manhattan dude who swept me away in his arms or swept me under the rug before stepping on it. I remembered the last time I went through the box; just a few days before I headed North – my eyes still swollen from crying myself to sleep more times than I would like to admit over the bittersweet end with Mr. Idea.

But – if I’m ever going to reach a point of self-love, of complete security in my single self, I certainly can’t let the Ex on the Shelf who is looking down at me, keep me from releasing the fear of being sad. Because sometimes, with a little bit of pain, comes a hell of a lot of change.

So, I dug into my Ex-Boyfriend Box of Memories.

I pulled out every last t-shirt and smelled them each. I looked at every picture, smiled at the memory of each man who has had his grip on my heart and my back. I read (and re-read) the words that these men, who at the time absolutely adored me, and felt my heart swell with thankfulness that I’ve been lucky enough to experience the blessing of  love from another person.  I held the ticket stubs and the plane tickets and thought of the experiences I had with each man, regardless if the flame died sooner than I wished upon it, or if the love was real or unrequited.

And not one letter, snapshot from the past, anniversary card, or sweatshirt made me cry. None of them crushed me. And more importantly, the memories this love memorabilia evoked – didn’t sadden me or make me long for old love – but they just made me remember how magical, how powerful, how life-altering, how incredible love can be.

Maybe because the timing wasn’t right, the romance wasn’t compatible, the desire wasn’t equal, the taking was more than the giving or due to him or due to me, or due to us – the love with the men of the box didn’t work out. It wasn’t designed by the fates to be everlasting, unconditional, and concrete enough for the commitment and upkeep of a lifetime. It took me a long time to realize that just because a relationship ended or a man walked away or put on my boots that were made for walkin‘ – that all love was lost. And to preserve those feelings, to hold onto to the images in my head that I valued so much I needed to catalog their apparel, their handwriting, and their handsome faces in a box on a shelf 600 miles away.

As I looked at all of my mementos and physical shadows of boyfriends-past (praying my parents didn’t open my door and ask what I was up to) – I decided I didn’t need any of it anymore. Well at least, not most of it, anyways. Of everything in that rather large box – I kept only two envelopes.  One with a few notes and another with a handful of photos. The rest of it was either tossed away or placed in a box for charity.

Because I don’t need a box to put my past behind glass or keep old love filed away. My exes don’t belong on a shelf – but rather, in special place in my heart, in my soul, and in my mind. And those memories, those images, those moments I shared with some very special men can never be contained to a single box or an entire blog, anyways. They are far too immense and have helped me become the woman I am more than any memorabilia I could ever keep.

After all, the love I’m searching for in myself, in the brilliance of being bold, beautiful, and single, in the bliss that comes with being independent – is partly due to the experiences of the past. Of the love I’ve shared and the heartbreak I’ve endured. Of the reminients of love that linger in my heart and will forever hope to find a love that not only stains, but stays. Of the process of not only admitting to the difficulties of the journey to loving myself, but accepting and learning from them, too.

If I’m going to free my mind and liberate my heart – I can’t keep all the exes on the shelf. Especially when the thought of them no longer makes me yearn, but makes me grateful for what was…and even more excited about meeting the man who I will share my life with, and hopefully much more than what could fit in any box ever created.

 

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Washing the Walls of Relationship Residue

My childhood bedroom is covered, nearly wall-to-wall with memorabilia. I’m notorious for hanging up inspirational quotes, pictures from magazines, old photos, letters from friends, New Yorky items, and all kinds of this-and-that. basically, I like to be surrounded by things that give me hope.

The last time I was home in June, I traced the walls with my eyes, reading and looking at everything that I hung up because I decided it was significant. I thought of all the things that once graced the space and I removed to make room for something more important. From gymnastic ribbons and poetry awards to Central Park postcards and brochures about Columbia –the walls that surrounded me reflected my growing pains and triumphs. Over the years, my tastes changed along with my goals and perspective –but some things I never cleared off the baby blue walls: love quotes.

Literally, they were (and are) everywhere: on index cards along the border of the ceiling, highlighted in black frames sitting on my bookshelf, scribbled on notebook paper and placed next to my bed… the list goes on and on. It seems as if, regardless of when and why I changed, my admiration for love never went away, and I always needed to be encouraged to remember it (or rather he) is still out there.

I haven’t had a ton of love in my life, but I’m under the belief that quality is much more important than quantity. I’m also 22 years old and I don’t think it’s realistic to say I’ve been in love countless times. Of these relationships, some  have been deeply rooted and lengthy, while others that still are significant to me, only lasted a matter of weeks. But of course, to each their own.

Like love quotes, wall hangings, photos of people I haven’t spoken to in years, and broken heels –I don’t let go of old relationships easily. And I hardly, unless forced, throw things or people away. So needless to say, a large part of my addiction to love is really an addiction to the past. Most of my struggle is not only believing there is a tomorrow (or that I’d be okay without ever finding love. Gulp.), but realizing flames that burned out months or years ago did so for a reason.

Before I can move forward in this journey, I realize I need to go back to the very beginning, and discover what parts of my thinking and analyzing past relationships needs to be corrected. In many ways, I need to alleviate myself of any longing, questioning, hoping, or fearing that’s leftover from love.

I really have to wash away relationship residue so I can have a clean slate for whatever is to come.

So, I’ll need to go back and think about Mr. Curls, Mr. Faithful, Mr. Rebound, Mr. Buddy, Mr. Fire, Mr. Fling, and Mr. Idea. There have been a fair share of additional Mr.’s on the roster over time, but these have specifically impacted me and my love addiction. And while all of them will hold a special place in my heart (and some have pieces of my soul), I have to still let go of a few…no matter how hard it may be.

When I think of my childhood room, I think of all of these guys. I think of talking on the phone in middle school with the chord wrapped around me and making love for the first time with my first love. I think of dreaming about going to college and having a friend become more unexpectantly. I think of crying more than I ever thought possible right before leaving for the best summer in New York and the coldness of an up and down relationship. And I think of the intense sting in the core of me after sharing such intimate parts of myself with someone who ultimately didn’t become what I envisioned he would.

Now, that room is in my past. Eventually, it won’t even be my room anymore, but a room in my parent’s house that once harbored all of my belongings. When I go home for Christmas, I’ll strip down the walls and clean it out to make room for a new transformation…and I’ll do the same to my heart.

Lucky for me, when I come back from dismantling my childhood room, I will enter an apartment that holds no memories or reminders of lost love. It’s a place that’s just me and only highlights the long journey I made to make my dreams my reality.

Yet, on a dry-erase board when you first walk into my apartment, there is a simple quote that says, “She packed up her potential and all she had learned, grabbed a cute pair of shoes, and headed out to change a few things.”