I sometimes wonder if my attachment to objects is somehow strongly connected to how I grew up with my siblings…
You see, during my Freudian development years, I have five siblings, and it would be anywhere from all five to non of them around, depending on the current situation… and I have a feeling that it was more often none of them around than any.
I have this vague memory of having a room full of toys when I was really little – it’s just a glimpse sort of memory of this one moment in this one particular house and bedroom… I wonder if my mom kind of surrounded me by toys – granted, we had awesome, genius-type toys and books, not stupid stuff, but there might have been a decent amount of them around – as a means of giving me the company I lacked from my siblings… possibly not, but also possibly so, just not consciously so…
Or maybe I just associate with objects as very important, because those were the versions of my siblings that did stay around whenever the real ones left…
It is difficult for me to let go of things, – I let go of them nowadays, though it definitely takes a lot of work for me to do so – and I wonder if it isn’t in part due to their representing my being surrounded by people who love and care about me.
Maybe not… it was just an idea that floated around for a while, and sounded like an interesting possibility.
I do think it is kind of odd, though, how often it seems I was alone, sibling-wise, in my early years, when considering that I technically had five siblings.
That’s just how those divorces worked out, you know?
I miss my bed in Japan. My bedroom, especially, is one thing I miss most these days. It was a haven for me. No matter what kind of chaos or boredom lurked in my life, every night, my bedroom awaited me in calm, open, and empty space… in beauty. I shut my doors, and was safe in my retreat from everything else. Only love and blessings were ever allowed into my bedroom. I wasn’t even allowed to walk in it if I hadn’t recently showered. Clean clothes, my ukulele and ukulele music, my nighttime books, and water and tissues were just about all that ever went in there, aside from a clean me and my bed.
My bedroom now is slightly larger, but filled with boxes and stuff… a sentimentality to which I am not so sure I still want to cling. I think I am afraid that I will forget the memories, if I get rid of the objects. I do not, for the most part, want the objects, but the memories and the ways I felt. Without the objects, what will remind me?
You know when people seem to ignore the question you ask, and instead answer a different one, one they assume you meant? And you know how you asked that question on purpose, because you wanted an answer to that question, not some other question? Yeah, I kind of want to punch people when they do this to me.
My mom and my best friend are the only ones who have a real shot at guessing whether and where I am going with an idea and questions I am asking about something, and they don’t even get it right all of the time. And they know this, so, if they think I might be leading somewhere specific with my question, they ask if I am doing that, and still answer my question. Other people don’t do that. And it makes me kind of want to punch them for it. Kind of…
Also, I can’t stand when people seem to be incapable of being straight about something. I ask a question, because I am seeking the answer to that question (see aforementioned explanation). Avoiding the answer or making up bull when the true answer is of actual importance is just plane crazy, and yet people like to do it a lot of the time, it seems. Ugh!
Also, when highly educated people misuse basic points of grammar, I have a sort of desire to throw a drink in their faces (the bad-grammar users), and rush away, disgusted. It’s dramatic, sure, but it’s a feeling that shows up somewhat often, nonetheless.
Anyway, I’ll go to sleep, now. I’ve had an annoying time with these few thoughts today (in addition to what felt like a million others), so I guess I just wanted to get them off my chest, in a sense…