OK, here’s where I journal the crap out of a topic I’m hoping to purge as completely as I can from my life: my inability to move on from my marriage. Expect a lot of this.
I’m doing this here because it’s becoming clear to me that as much as my friends love me, there’s only so much they want to hear. And also, there’s only so much that should be permissible for me in everyday conversational dialogue about my ex-wife. My friend, Brian, recently likened the marriage to a zombie: something that’s dead but which still just plain won’t die: something undead. Unholy. Something that keeps attacking me and coming back to life no matter what I seem to do to kill it. But of course, it’s plain to me that I’ haven’t done everything I could or should; it’s no wonder I think about her every day: I still live with her ghost.
Now, I’ll concede that there are still things in this house that belonged to her that I must get rid of. I’ve come used to seeing them in my line of sight, but when I actually come into close interaction with them, a specific memory is triggered. And then there are the things that belonged to her that have since become mine. If I stop to think about it, I’ll remember that it was something that she brought into my life, but in the end, it’s mine now. Those things I can live with… for the most part.
Then there are those things which are on the border. Like this towel hanger in my kitchen. “Huh?”, you ask. Let me tell you the story.
Shortly after we moved in, we were unpacking, and I returned home from work one afternoon, and while I was complimenting her on her recent crock pot experiment, she asked me if I noticed anything different about the room. Of course, it was a new place, a new space, and a new time for us :there were lots of new things each moment. I’m also not the most visually observant person out there. She knew this, but she always managed to be disappointed if I couldn’t notice what new and wonderful decorating thing she had executed this time.
And, this time, it was the “Coffee Break” towel hanger. The towels depicted above are towels I bought afterwards, but the hanger is still there. I just remember how proud she was of this small thing she’d done to introduce some kind of retro artefact into our living space, to make the space that much more “ours”. It looked great hanging there on that chocolate brown pillar (let me tell you, the colour of this wall was a big deal: brown walls in our domicile were a point of major contention between us when we were first engaged; she never forgave me for not trusting her design sense… then again, I never forgave her for not affording me an opinion contrary to hers). But nevertheless, it was the perfect addition to the kitchen. I credit its perfection as the reason why I didn’t notice it. And so, small as the accomplishment was, she had right to be proud, and it’s the memory of times like that that make me really miss her in my life.
And now, today, whenever I dry my hands: I can’t help but feel her standing there, grinning at this thing that she’d done, tinged with a little disappointment that I hadn’t immediately noticed. It reminds me how important my opinion of her was to her; how much of what she does is built around other people validating her choices, proving that she’s worth what she knows inside she is.
Anyway, this thing is a fixture in my life, now. I can’t throw it away. At least, not until I move out of the house (I’ll probably leave it there when I do).
But, in the meantime, there is plenty of stuff that I do need to let go of. I’m a sentimantalist. Memories mean something to me. Things have stories that mean something to me. Each thing has a story, and I feel that, in telling it, I can let it go for good. So, expect to read some stories.
I just saw the film, 
