I Don’t Want to Marie Kondo

When I moved to New York City officially in August of 2011, my stepdad George bought me a furniture set from Bob’s Discount Furniture. It included a bed frame, a nightstand, and a dresser, and my landlord complained about the delivery for the next 2 months. Over the years, it has accompanied me from apartment to apartment (unfortunately, the footboard of the bed was broken in a move and the bed frame itself was sacrificed when an ex and I decided to get a queen size mattress). There has always been some sort of lingering fear about what happens when these pieces give out, which sounds idiotic I know. Recently, as I was shoving sheets into the bottom drawer of my dresser, the drawer broke, and I kinda lost it. I actually cried. I know that these pieces, though lovingly designed by Bob himself, will not last forever, but I’m still not ready to say goodbye.

In a weird way, I think it’s linked to my grief of losing a parental figure. The first Christmas after George passed, my ex dropped a framed photo of him, myself and my mom, and I burst into tears. Four weeks later, he dumped me. I was fragile then, and perhaps I’m still fragile now.

Nothing can ever prepare you for loss. And as I watch these pieces begin to show their wear and tear (as a $599 set of furniture will do after ten years), and I begin to figure out my next move, I wonder how much longer I can hold onto these things. These items that I have somehow made represent a person who is no longer here. It’s as if I feel that if I get new items, I am letting George go. And I don’t know how to work through that. Because let’s be honest, embodying furniture with the life of another human is fucking weird. 

I knew they wouldn’t last forever, but I had hoped they would somehow be pieces that… saw some milestone of my life? When we had to throw out the cracked footboard, I actually had a mini panic attack. George did so much for me, and now, the thing he sent me off into my real life with had actually broken. And the funny thing is, he was still alive when that happened. But I felt so much guilt at letting something that someone I loved (and who loved me) be tossed out onto the curb, that I tried justifying keeping it despite the fact that it was basically broken in half. 

This is George. I took this photo on a (then cool) app called HipStagram, and then had it printed. It was found in the Tupperware under my bed. Side note: this is George enjoying his first-ever Starbucks iced coffee.

I’ve always loved objects and thought that they meant more than just the surface. This is why my mother used to call me a hoarder. I have since watched Hoarders and know I am not, thank you very much. What I am is sentimental. I like to hold onto things that remind me of people or moments. The wrist band from SXSW, the wine glass from the Wolfer vineyard, every fucking card or letter ever given to me. I feel as though I am able to connect my life’s journey through these items and somehow, find the peace of mind that I was there during it all- that I had lived a meaningful life. That my moment in time mattered and there is evidence of my existence. Christ, I have the shoes I wore when I took my first steps as a baby. Something is wrong with me. 

And yet, if the building was on fire (which I often think about right before I go to sleep), I don’t know what I’d save first. Or even try to save. Because, ya know, it’s a fire. I know these are just objects and are replaceable (to some extent), but the idea of being left with nothing of my past is terrifying. How will I know where I’ve been? How will this help me define where I’m going and who I was in the past? I want to have a record of my life, but is it found in these small pieces of paper? Am I obsessing over the things that could just be tinder for the fire?

These are thoughts that keep me up at night (that and worrying about the building burning down or someone appearing on my fire escape). I don’t pretend to be a rational person- it never was my brand and never will be. But, in my quest to build a life, I wonder if I am somehow tied down by things. I should try Marie Kondo, but honestly I just don’t want to. I don’t want to compartmentalize shit into joy and not joy, because even if there wasn’t joy in the moment, it brought me here now (hello hospital bracelet from when I cracked my head open).

Objects help me make my roadmap, and hopefully remind me that life is good. Life is scary. It’s messy, and imperfect, and fucking glorious. And if that means keeping a giant Tupperware container of cards and notes and weird little things under my bed, then so be it. 

Taken today- the actual Tupperware… just one of them though…

And as for the furniture, it will work in a spare bedroom, I’m sure.