After enough time has passed we take our baggage and dump out the contents, the lies, cheating and the fabric of our old relationships. Without a handbook, school lesson plans or DIY step by step guides we still know how to dump out the memories like blinking when the wind blows dust around.
I dumped all my “baggage” out a few months ago, after the one-year marker of no sex, gaining my fair share in ice cream weight and after I cried enough to fill up The Great Salt Lake. Still, after it was all said and done I felt sad and I had these new set of insecurities involving sex, my body, and love.
We forget about the what the “baggage” came in, like an old suitcase in the corner. And I have like five suitcases sitting in my garage (that’s not a metaphor, that’s a real thing, moving across the country sucks). I’m sure I was conscious (back to the metaphor) when I didn’t throw out the last pieces of my old relationships. Maybe I’m not ready to let go, never believed in ripping off the band-aid, or denial has taken hold. Whatever the reason I forgot about the suitcases linger in the back. And on the days I trip over them and hit my shins I realize I have a long way to go before I’m all the way healed.
I spend a lot of time pretending I don’t know I have extra baggage and pretend like I don’t know what my remaining baggage is exactly. This is an utter and complete lie. I think about my leftover baggage each time I get naked with a man. I think about my baggage each time I look down at my body, each blouse, each button I misplace, I know exactly what’s holding me back.
In hopes of throwing out the last of my baggage I hope to confess every piece nasty memory I have been carrying in my mind each time I lie down naked with someone, every time I try to enjoy someone’s smile and each time another “he” leaves me, I remember every nasty memory all over again, like I’m reliving the moments again.
- My high school boyfriend (Adam) and I had already moved from just making out, to fingering, handjobs, to oral. One night when we weren’t watching the movie on the TV he went down on me, unzipped my pants and right as he went down for a moment came back up and made the most disgusted sound and faces and said he couldn’t handle the smell of my body and instead I went down on him and his sweaty balls.. *I’m sure I had showered and I was only a young teenage girl, going through every short of change, but of course I still question my hygiene to this day. I have carried such a massive insecurity about someone going down on me.
- My senior year of high school Adam and I went to my senior prom together. I did my hair, wore a beautiful blue dress, strapless, ruffled at my bust like the waves of the ocean. He looked at me and said I was wearing too much make-up. Thank goodness my best friend Tammy told him to shut the fuck up.
- My boyfriend who cheated on me, the first time we broke up (before the cheating) one of the reasons we broke up was because he didn’t like how I was always wearing sweatshirts and not wearing enough make-up.
- My boyfriend who cheated on me, the second and last time we broke up I knew for a fact he couldn’t stand me being better at speech than him. I was a better coach and a better performer. He couldn’t handle this.
- ^He called me stupid and told me to shut-up a lot^ I always thought it was joking. This is not true. It’s hard now when people tell me to shut-up or say I’m dumb because of him. I flinch when someone tells me to shut-up. Even in a joking matter.
- When I found ^his^ list of all the girls he had dated and I saw my qualities were “sporty body” and “can get guys easy” I felt like I had nothing to offer but a body and flirtatious charm. That was the first time I felt like a slut.
- The last time my ex (who cheated on me) and I ever spoke, we were trying to be friends and it was going well until the really deep seeded emotions came out. He screamed and demanded I leave his house, cussed me out and flipped me off as I drove away. (My guy friend was also hanging out with us at the time and saw everything).
- My boyfriend John told me, “no one is ever going to love you, no one is ever going to want to marry you.” Sometimes on very dark days or right after a break up I think of those words and wonder he really did curse me.
- When I went to give John a piece of my mind and I ended up in the shower with him.
- That moment on the leather couch, or was it cross stitched patterned? Were the lights on or off? Was there a pool table or a beer pong table next to us? Was I really even drunk? These details are fuzzy and it’s weird to explain the moment: I was more watching then present, like an out of body experience or fly on the wall. I can see the hands holding me and the unwanted touching and my slow reaction.
- I think the moment I was lying on the floor, in a room filled with cigarette smoke and I was so hurt by how he left me. He just left, walked out and onto another girl. I thought fucking someone else was going hurt him somehow. Like when a boy pulls a girl’s pigtails. When in reality I’d become every terrible angsty teen novel and I fucked the guy covered in tattoos, the tongue piercing, who smelled and tasted of cigarettes. I closed my eyes and pretend to be somewhere else and this fuck changed everything. I fucked about six more guys like him, all different heights, variety of personalities but surprisingly all tasted of smoke and ash. I no longer can smell cigarettes without having flashbacks. Within a few months sex was no longer about love or sharing a moment with someone, it was my meal ticket to self-worth.
*Coincidence that yesterday one of the suitcases (literally a suitcase I own) fell apart yesterday and this morning as I was leaving for work I watched the garbage truck haul it away.