Its closet time again as my baggage is starting to push outwards of my personal closet doors, and affect my day to day life. This just won’t do, as they are straining on the emotional walls that I have used to wrongly keep them hidden away from my view.
My bags do not have fancy brand names. They do not make an outfit nor do they have a fashionable look. They are not cute in any way for they were not designed to be cute. They instead keep me chained to the ground immobilized in fear to move forward in my life. This constant fear of the memories that they hold within and the emotional damage they so powerfully trigger. But I have to release the hoarding of my baggage. For to some baggage and emotional clutter may represent the experiences of a grown woman. But to me, they are nothing but shackles and thorns keeping me prisoner.
So as I search within, it stands proudly with its diamond covered, golden glamour. It stands right at the front with the audacity of an old favorite. I have carried this bad boy around for such a long time, I think it actually believes that it belongs here. But it does not and it’s time to go. Yes his original handles were so soft to the touch easily compatible with the world’s finest leather. From the outside world, to the virgin viewer it appears perfect.
But it isn’t perfect, for within the compartments lie the pain of years. The gentle spoken lies lay over intended deceit and illness aid to make up its structure. The softness of visual perfection cover the imposed hurt that left me struggling to always fit into the sellers’ decision of what is expected of me. Nothing in this golden bag ever fit my frame. Foolishly I saw the telltale signs every time I tried to make it work, but as a fool I still tried.
There were times I believed the image of it felt more natural than anything the bag actually held within. Yet day after day, month after month….I kept trying to make it fit. Until finally the suffocation of keeping everything within was just too much. I could no longer stand blinded by the glitter of the diamond cover. There was no drawing to the outward soft touch. For there was no longer softness touch to my hand. Instead, it was replaced by a grasp that self-imposed the burning of my fingers; as they tried to hold on to the remnants of the bag’s original design.
I had nothing to assist me in my pain. There were no catalogs to model how to wear such a delicate balance. There were no Reality shows on TV to train me to smile with my eyes; as they burned inside with a tsunami of tears held back by sea walls of ill-fitting pride and defeated shoulders. Shoulders that no longer can carry the weight of this golden scepter.
Oh well here goes.
Tearfully I exhale and take my time to begin the process of removing the diamond piece from my emotional closet. Slowly I will unlace its hold on my life and my dreams. With each uncurling, the band heat will dissipate, the handle’s grip will let go of its release of my emotions. But due to the extended wear, the brightly scarred emotions and flesh that stood in its place will now have a chance to heal fully. AND not the “I am Okay type of Heal”, but the “Real Healing”. The type that sometimes hurts, but the only one that removes scars and replaces it with smiles, and now leaves space for future happiness.