Mixing Past and Present

There are boxes in the main section of the loft. My office is full of books, journals, bits and pieces, the guest room has a bed sitting in it, waiting to be used.

Half my things never made it here, they were lost along the way and the movers are all blaming each other but I'm glad we no longer pay for the storage of them.

My whole life is here now.

Looking through all this stuff is a bit disorienting. My journals in particular, are scattershot, disorganized, to me now, they are clearly a sign of fear, even desperation. I tried so hard to establish a life in Canada that would be both "normal" in the context of my family background and healthy.

In reality, the two are irreconcilable.

I realize now that I am in the midst of what will likely be a fairly lengthy healing process and I am humbled, honored and more than a bit awed by Steven's decision to love and marry me despite all my many flaws and scars.

But slowly, I am healing.

When I look at all of this stuff scattered around me I sometimes wish the bulk of it could have all been left behind. It carried with it a palpable sense of sorrow, loneliness, bewilderment and a willingness to delude myself into thinking things could be okay under circumstances where they clearly were poised to collapse into disaster that is embarrassing to read.

So I address the task of organizing all those mementos of unhappiness into my happy life. There's value in some of them; it's nice to have a selection of winter coats. I'm glad to see some of my art again and some of the books are welcome but in the main, the material stuff of a life that never satisfied heart or soul in any meaningful or sustainable way is just like driftwood on the beach; it's interesting to look at but you don't need to bring it home.