When I left the Upper Texas coast this time last year, I left behind a storage room full of my past as well: my childhood, my youth, parts of both marriages, and furnishings I thought I might someday use in a house or apartment.
I left the shadows of a former marriage, friends that I felt had abandoned me for the big, genial teddy bear they believe my ex to be, a job I could not survive on and I felt no longer valued me, and a man who floated in and out of my life just enough to keep me on a delicate tether of hope for some sort for human kindness.
On occasion, I have missed the odd thing here and there: some bit of clothing or a book, pelicans, the sea, friends, the man. However, by and large, my desire to come back here was tainted by the anxiety of running into what and who I left by choice and with good reason.
When I left, that storage room became an anchor. As long as those things remained here, I had a reason to return to this place. Having a 5’ x 10’ space filled almost to bursting with my things, was a comfort. It meant I could come back to the sea, the birds, and potentially, the man.
I spoke to a friend who asked if this was really the last time. Am I really leaving for good? It felt like such a loaded question at that moment.
Yes. I really am. If I must rent a trailer to take it all with me, I am done with this place. I am done with the shadows and ghosts and pain.
At night, a few miles from the presence of someone who I led myself to believe was a better human than he is, I struggle to sleep. During the day, a few miles from the home I shared with an even lesser man, I struggle not to rage.
To be free of them while simultaneously giving up on the beauty of the sea and the joy of the birds requires the painful effort of hauling up that anchor—becoming, finally, fully unmoored.
It is necessary pain.
I spent Monday trying to sort through my personal belongings, but the predicted “scattered showers” turned into a deluge. Almost nothing was accomplished except bruised ego and weakened resolve. I drove home in near-zero visibility with a death grip on the steering wheel, peering through the windshield like an ancient woman who’d lost her spectacles.
A night of tossing and turning and a morning of a colitis flare brought a decision: no more arguments with the elements and no more hoping to make things work exactly as I had hoped. I’ll dump the furniture with a charity and set to the arduous task of sorting for several days. If it isn’t done, it will go to Dallas with me. Nothing will stay behind.
Failure to Compartmentalize = Remember for Self-preservation
If I could lock my memories in tidy, little boxes (like both of those men do) and drop them in the old Brazos river to rot, I would. If I could leave them in storage where rats and roaches would consume them, I would.
I cannot.
The memories will, in part, be carried with me and I hope, in time, they will wither like the wildflowers now fading and crackling in the Surfside winter dunes.
I want the joy of the pelicans and sea to linger as indistinct and bittersweet, so I am not drawn back to them.
I want the pain of my marriage to be a reminder to not let anyone tell me how to exist in my own skin.
I want the chaos of The Wrong Man to be a gentle caution to avoid letting someone’s trauma attach me to their heart.
It will be challenging not to steer myself away from friendships and human caring as a whole, for I need the memory of the fragility of these things as well, lest I wander back into this Texas Gulf Coast realm.
Lastly, I need that storage-room anchor released entirely, so I am never tempted to return.