When Black Lung is near, and foreign memories are even nearer.

So I just unearthed years of my childhood and a metric ton of crap, and I’ve breathed in enough dust to give me serious concerns about Black Lung.

Ah, the joys of moving.

The closet in my room has accumulated vast bits and bobs and sentient dust bunnies, and in order to take the first step towards packing, I had to sift through the junk. I thought about photographing this process, but this Blackberry app has yet to experience a healthy love affair with media related objects, and I’ve decided some are just not meant to be. You can’t push these things!

First step was the clothes. Now, this may shock you if you’re a regular reader of this blog, but I’m not really a clothes girl. In fact, my wardrobe is something on par with Grace Hart’s in Miss Congeniality. (One of my favorite movies. Naturally.) I don’t own a lot by way of clothes.

So my family decided to be kind enough to use the empty space for me, filling it with all sorts of shirts and sweaters and pants, the kinds one would think only exists in myth.

I’m not kidding. I’ve seen enough would be sixties era drug trip quilt shirts, seafoam green, and brown that you would only find in the sewers of Derry where It resides (among other strange and terrible beasts), to last a lifetime.

But I dutifully went through it all, piles upon piles, and sorted the Utterly Horrifying from the More or Less Okay or Something. After bagging the former for donations and handing off the latter to the appropriate parties, most of which will probably also be donated, it was time for everything below it.

The biggest obstacle being this gigantic blue storage tub, accumulator of books and etc. I started sorting through, and it took all I had not to sit down and start reading some of the old series I used to be head over heels for (Fearless, for example, by Francine Pascal. Yes, the same woman responsible for Sweet Valley High. I wanted to be Gaia. And I remember distinctly being in love with Ed.), and press on with the task at hand.

There were journals (containing IRC exploits that were frighteningly soap like in nature, middle school/high school day to day, stories, poems, doodles, and pieces of Stickman Comics (my long running comic strip that actually made fans of friends in high school. No, I’m not kidding.), and other randomness), stuffed animals (one bear even resembles Big Bird’s bear Radar from Sesame Street), and things that’d clearly been stuffed in there ages ago in a valiant effort to ‘clean’ my room when I was a kid.

I was a grand practitioner of prestidigitation in those days, let me tell you.

It was unsettling sifting through all that, putting myself back in contact with The Me Who Was. I’m still a strong advocate for finding ways to take yourself down a few year type pegs (Not too many, naturally. Stripping down to your undies and running around just for kicks is not hysterical anymore, remember that. Or it is, but only until the cops show up.) but that was a version of myself that was dealing with budding teenage angst and all sorts of behavior.

The same behavior, of course, that I conveniently remember nothing about now. Except for when I was cracking jokes at my sisters over what they were doing.

One of the journals was also a version of me that was en route to a five year stretch of depression and anxiety that eventually culminated in a breakdown. And, shortly after that, leaving high school. Reading The Me Who Was at that particular point, knowing The Me Who Will Be, and being The Me Who Is… It’s like watching a horror movie you’ve already seen, and wanting to scream at the Dumb Blonde who’s about to get her throat slashed so she can go quick like a bunny off into the muscley arms of the Quarterback.

Although in this case, it would be the muscley arms of Sanity.

… Yeah. Let’s say that.

It’s all done now. I tossed the journals. The girl who was just stepping onto the hormone tilt-a-whirl and liked to live it up as Rei Kitsua (I know.) online is long gone, and so’s the girl who spent a fair amount of years not even being able to leave the house and go to school without getting sick as a dog, so it felt right. This whole thing is supposed to be about moving on, is it not?

Forced evolution, one way or the other. Better to leave those unfortunate souls where they lay, and try to get started on the next girl that’s should be heading down the production line.

Or woman, rather.

I’m glad my Philosophy in Feminism teacher doesn’t read this, I’d get beaten with The Feminine Mystique and everything ever written by Simone de Beauvoir for that one.

Shaaaaame.

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~ by Sara on December 10, 2011.

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