I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair

Don't try to patch it up. Tear it up, tear it up! Wash him out! Dry him out! Push him out! Fly him out! Cancel him, and let him go. Yea, sister!

Parting with your ex's things is a right of passage when going through a breakup. We've all held on to little pieces of our past until we were ready to let them go; it's not easy, but in the end, it usually feels good. As soon as the old is gone, there's space for something new, literally. Parting with your dead spouse's things, on the other hand, feels like falling into a black hole in which the thought of something new induces uncontrollable panic and you will inevitably be left feeling guilty. It is a disastrous mix of emotions that can only be (partially) soothed by a bottle of wine. I know this because it took an entire bottle of wine for me to go through Mark's clothes about three months after his suicide.

And on a fun side note, because I love fun side notes, here's what I actually remember from that night:
I got a phone call from a friend who asked me out on a sort-of date at precisely the moment I found myself 3/4 of the way through said bottle of wine and sitting on the floor among small piles of Mark's shirts and a thick muck of my own sweaty, teary moisture with a dash of echoing curse words funking up the air. I think the ghost of Mark might have summoned this friend to call me at that very moment and ask me on that sort-of date in order to save me from a complete nervous breakdown, or otherwise alcohol-induced incident for which the neighbors might possibly have called the cops, and to give me some sort of hope for the future, even though that friend and I never went beyond that one sort-of date. 

The rest is a blur. I know I made three piles: one for Mark's mom (some of his older shirts I knew she'd want), one to donate (shirts he almost never wore and seemed insignificant), and one for me (the shirts that nobody else will ever get to have because he was my husband, dammit!) There were shorts and pants, too. I don't recall what I did with them. He seemed to have a lot of socks, most of which were in two unopened packs that looked like they came from Costco, given their rather high quantity. I kept and wear those myself; they're quite comfy. And his shirts have since been brought to my older sister, who is making them into a quilt, which will likely spend most of its time in the closet, since I don't much like having Mark's things out in the open or having to see them without having first had a strong desire to remember them. But it'll be nice, and I'll have it for when I miss him.

Why I'm bringing all of this up is because I just got new bedding and feel like a (slightly mad) woman on a mission to cleanse my room of all things that reek of a past I don't much care to have around. 

OUT WITH THE OLD! IN WITH THE NEW! THROW IT ALL AWAY!

Or donate it because other people could use these things. I'm a nice person like that, and you should be, too.

But back to my cleansing. I don't honestly have much stuff left behind from Mark, and I'm really quite grateful for that. Given his gambling addiction and irrational need to sell anything he could in order to have more money to gamble, a lot of our possessions slowly disappeared. In the end, this was a saving grace. Being left with fewer things meant being left with fewer responsibilities and opportunities for further emotional disasters. Don't get me wrong. I have had plenty of shit to deal with, primarily because of this lack of items and information that he left behind. Further, I can fall apart at the slightest of things that remind me of Mark, and not usually in a sad way; on the contrary, I usually find myself first in a stage of rage when glimpses of our life together are brought to mind. And though one should never compare one loss to another, I've heard about many of my fellow widows having to sort through a lot more STUFF than I did, and I'm just glad I didn't have to go through all of that. A few bags of clothes were hard enough. 

Mark's mom, as well as my own, were very clear that I should not get rid of too many things in the early days. I kept some things at his mom's house for a while until I was ready to take them back or part with them. Everything that has since come to my current home has moved only from my car to the garage to the attic. I really don't care to look at any of it, but I know I might someday, so it'll all remain in the attic until that day arrives. I did throw plenty of other items away, though, because I had such a strong case of the fuck-its. And then there's this whole list of items whose whereabouts I may never know. I can only assume he sold those things, so I try to not waste much energy on them.

My bed, on the other hand, is something upon which I spend a LOT of time.

See what I did there? I'm so witty. 

We didn't buy this bed. Technically, it's not even a bed. It's a mattress on top of two twin-sized box springs without a frame. Mark's cousin was going to get rid of it when she moved, and we didn't have a bed for our guest room, so we gladly took it off her hands. Our bed then moved to the guest room, where Mark later shot himself, and the new mattress/box springs became ours. Naturally, I no longer have the bed in which he killed himself. That would be so utterly traumatizing. But I did keep the other. For starters, I needed a bed and was completely broke when Mark died. It's also quite comfy. But mostly I was broke and starting fresh with little more than the things that fit into my new room.

Sometimes I hate that bed. It's not particularly significant in a warm and fuzzy way. Mark rarely ever slept there because he was out most nights at the casino or playing house games with random people. We didn't have any spectacular sex in that bed. We didn't even pay for it. My mom got us the bedding as a gift. She's much better at decorating than I am, so we let her pick it out and then approved of what we liked. We (I) settled on a nice comforter with bright springy colors. And when I moved to my new place, all the bedding came with me. If I could have afforded it, I think I might have bought myself a new set of everything to go with my new room in my new home, but that bedding had so little to do with Mark that I really didn't mind keeping it around. 

Lately, though, I'm ready for more new. Better said, I'm ready for more ME. I've slowly been parting with things from our marriage, and my bedroom is very much mine. The bookshelves and walls are covered with books that remind of how far I've come, photos of people who lift me up, knickknacks from places I've visited... it's Maggie central in here. But that damn bed just takes up so much space and has started to become a bit of a sore spot. So I got some new bedding, a gift from my Mumma.

Have I mentioned how much my mom loves me?

I ordered it online. My criteria was mainly that it be bright, or at least not dark. It's got some gray with some sections in a bright blue-tealish sort of tinted color...

Have I mentioned I'm not a decorator?

It doesn't really match my yellow accent wall, but I like it all the same. It was in the right price range, and when it came to down to my final two choices, I went with this one because it has squares, not chevrons like the other, and chevrons remind me of the Marine Corps, which then reminds me of Mark.

Have I mentioned how being reminded of Mark has the potential to toss me into a fit of rage or otherwise disastrous incident?

SOMEBODY GET THE WINE!

Kidding. I'm fine. And sober! At least today. But I definitely didn't want chevrons on my bed. The duvet cover (because I'm fancy and have a duvet) is apparently bigger than the duvet itself, though I'd much rather call it a plain comforter. But it works. Also, there's no longer a skirt around the two box springs, so they're just out there in the open for everybody to see, like a drunken fool caught with their pants down and their underwear on display. So, now I have to see those box springs and feel a bit like all I've done by getting new bedding is put icing on a mud pie. It looks different on the outside, but it's still not really MY bed. I just covered it up, and now my issue is that I want a new mattress. I want to pick it out myself from a store, brand new, with my own money because I can afford it, not because I'm too broke to get my own and need somebody else's hand-me-down which they would otherwise be throwing away. 

Or donating because other people could use those things, and that's the nice thing to do, remember?

I guess I've mostly been the person that people donate their things TO. There's nothing particularly wrong with this. I get that this is a first-world problem and that I am so privileged in life that it is ridiculous. But I still want my own things. I think buying my own mattress will be such a milestone that I'll throw a party to celebrate. I'm not going to buy a new bed skirt to cover up those box springs; I'm going to let them hang out, all bare and ugly, to serve as a visual reminder of my mattress-purchasing goal. You can expect to read a post about it when that happens. It'll be great. I'll probably throw an even bigger party when I finally get rid of Mark's car and get a new one of my own choosing. 

Except maybe I won't because I'll have invested my funds into the car and likely won't have much left for a party... But I will still post about it!