On Discarding Things
Date: 2024-03-09
A house filled with love
I'm visiting my Aunt for the week and I noticed her house is filled with things, not in a materialistic way, but rather a gradual collection of meaningful objects that bring warmth and love to her home. Her house is in stark contrast to my father's house, bare and pristine, as well as my room, which remains deliberatively undecorated. The state of my Aunt's house invites reflection, and I notice that, in multiple ways, I have a habit of discarding things.
Strange attributes
This entry comes with a preface that many of these attributes I outline are born from complex trauma. It's something so normal for me, as it's woven into the fabric of my daily life, but I realize this might come off as really strange to non-traumatized individuals. Still, I hope you find something interesting here. My intention in writing this is to express something previously unexpressed, and to perhaps alleviate some internal tension.
Things that weigh me down
Decorating my room
I prefer to keep my room bare. I don't decorate my walls or my desk. I don't love recieving gifts from people that function as decoration, cards included, because it reminds me of the lack of love I feel from people. I lack emotional permanence, so if someone doesn't regularly express their love towards me, I feel, with all my heart, that they no longer love me. How terrible would it be to have a physical object remind you of someone who doesn't love you?
Also, I am weary of recieving gifts because eventually the friendships fall apart and, again, the objects remind me of someone who no longer loves me. There's a grief for good times ending; it always seems to end. Being Autistic meant masking heavily– I desperately wanted friends, so I would mold myself into what I thought they wanted me to be, and it meant that they were befriending a facade. So when things inevitably fell apart, I would have to "discard" the friendship and run, and be left with no friends in turn.
At times, with more self-centered individuals, recieving a gift makes me feel guilty. There are times when a gift is not really a gift, but an assumed contract of, "you owe me now." Regardless of intent, I generally feel indebted to people or undeserving of a gift.
My diary: erased
Within the past year, I bought a paper shredder. One of the main things I shred are my journal entries. I do this for a few reasons. For one, my history haunts me; my parents used to go through my stuff without my permission, so now I carry a paranoia that someone will read my entries– even more so if I'm writing with complete honesty. Secondly, I hate reading back my entries. It reminds me of how absolutely miserable I was at the time, and I marvel at how I endured it. I usually find that I'm suffering from much the same issues as before. I don't need to read my entries for self awareness or to make connections; it just pains me. I also feel a lot of shame in being so vulnerable on paper. I have a strange complex born from shame where everything I touch becomes tarnished. So, I shred my entries and it's cathartic. I become 'clean,' and most importantly no one can use my entries against me.
At times, especially in a PTSD episode, I considered shredding the master copies of my zines. To me, that seems like a cardinal sin of zine making. It's not irrational though. If my dad were to read them, it would open up a can of worms. Being the black sheep and talking about the abuse and dysfunction that occured in the family is looked down upon in a familial culture where we are meant to keep silent and pretend everything is fine. He would likely tell me, "I did the best I could," and feel guilty, and I would be inclined to say, "Well, it wasn't good enough." There's so much anger there, perhaps to be reserved for another entry.
Music: a trip to the past
I can't listen to most of the music I've compiled throughout the years because I'm constantly going through a difficult time; the depression is year round. So listening to a past playlist brings me right back to that time and I start reliving it. I intentionally try to compartmentalize and forget my lowest moments because I have no business returning there. Once, I had a coworker ask me what music I was into, and I could not name a single artist.
Discarding hobbies and other interests
Entering into early adulthood was a fight for autonomy in a controlling, enmeshed family. In other words, I desperately needed to separate from family and become my own person. My counselor at the time told me that was developmentally normal. Once I built up the courage, I left all the things that were expected of me. I stopped taking piano lessons and I stopped going to church. I stopped pretending to be a girl. Independent from expectations, I stopped singing lessons and listening to show tunes, and I dropped my psychology major. I wouldn't be surprised if I abandoned crochet in the near future. Crochet solidly defined my life for the better part of two years, and kept me alive. The novetly has since worn off and it's nearly time to move on.
Who are you?
Constantly having to reinvent myself leaves me with a fragmented, amorphous identity. Who am I? Well, I used to play piano and I used to sing. I used to study psychology. And these were things I spent years cultivating. I find it difficult connecting with people because I can't accurately convey to them who I am. I am ever-changing, fluid, and entirely too complex for surface level conversation. What distances me further from people is the ways I've had to adapt to my trauma. What normal person shreds their journals? What normal person hates to decorate their room and recieve supposedly sentimental gifts?
I'm not sure where this leaves me. I think I mostly feel self pity, alienation, and grief. I'm not sure I'll ever settle into an identity. Perhaps that's not a bad thing, but I continue to feel misunderstood.