Painful Packing

17/04/24

When EH first left, there was something weirdly comforting in the personal effects he’d left behind.

There was a kind of tom cat piss, territory marking feeling to his things still being here – like he might be back.

The imagining that there was meaning behind these abandoned possessions was a form of bandage on my raw, savaged emotions.

As weeks went by, the terrible wound of him leaving started to heal, just a bit, around the edges.

At that point, his bits of clothing, shoes, bike wheels, and so on, became more painful. They were knocking the scab off the wound every time I stumbled across one of them.

I’d already half-heartedly stuffed some things into boxes and shoved them into the grandkids’ room, but today I decided it was time to do a once and for all sweep of the house.

I got the obvious stuff first, then went through all the cupboards and drawers, turfing up previously undiscovered artefacts.

I packed it all, no matter how big or small. If it belonged to him it went into the bin bags.

I sobbed the entire time.

It was like an emotional disembowelling.

The logical, sensible, determined to recover, part of me was very clear.

I don’t want his things in my house. I don’t want constant, physical reminders of him. He’s in my head far too much, without his belongings being in my house too.

The recovering, emotionally addicted part of me was the one having a hard time with it.

Once everything was bagged up, I dumped it all into a dark corner of the shed then messaged my friend Giorgio for some moral support and general boosting.

By the time I’d finished my conversation with him, any grief I’d been feeling had been replaced with a sense of belligerence about having to be responsible for the removal of EH’s abandoned shit.

Giorgio should not be held responsible for this. I got there all by myself. Giorgio’s role was providing me the safe space, and necessary motivating feedback.

For some time, people have been saying I should put all EH’s remaining stuff in the bin, but I have an odd resistance, almost defiance about it.

EH knew that he wasn’t going to be coming back. He should have put his own unwanted shit in the bin instead of, as ever, leaving it for me to deal with.

I’m currently more than resentful enough that I’ve just had to go through the whole finding and packing process. I’m damned if I’m also going to go through the inconvenience of working out how to dispose of it.

For the time being, it can stay where it is in the shed. The spiders can make new homes in it all.

When the time’s right, I’ll dump it all at his feet. I’ll be telling him I’m totally done with it all – the marriage, him, his stuff.

Then he can put his own shit in his own bin.

I’m glad I made myself do this today.

Painful as it was in the process, a lot of grief has been released and moved on.

I feel stronger for having done it.

JP