(forcibly). Bags. (He points at Lucky.) Why? Always hold. (He sags, panting.) Never put down. (He opens his hands, straightens up with relief.) Why?
I've often thought about that phrase. My college produced an incredible production of Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot and I was fortunate enough to be the lighting designer. Even though I watched the play over and over, a lot of Beckett's brilliance was lost on 20-year-old me.
In college, I was only vaguely aware of my inner demons and how heavy they were nestled inside my emotional baggage. Yet I was still more self aware than I had been in high school. In high school, I was angry all of the time. I was angry so much that I didn't remember not being angry, nor where it came from or when it started. College was different. It was my oasis. Not only did I have a chance to start over in a new city with a new group of people, but I also had the beginnings of a wonderful support system. So why did I drag my baggage to this new place? I carried all of my grief, anger, and resentment for myself up the three flights of stairs to my freshman dorm room and shoved my over-large bag into my too tiny closet. Over the next 4 years (8 move in/outs and a lot of stairs later), I realized I still carried my heavy emotional bags. Wayne, my stunt double dad and incredibly supportive college advisor let me flop on his couch daily and complain about this or that, until one day, he quoted that passage from Godot. Why was I carrying my bags around? Clearly my arms were getting tired.
My senior year of college, during mental health week, I decided to take the plunge and see the school therapist. I figured I should talk to a professional someone about all the crazy ideas bouncing around in my head. Sounds like a great plan right? Except I had developed an inherent distrust of therapists and psychologist. I had previously had a bad example that led me to believe they were all a bunch of hacks and hypocrites. I also came from a long line of salt-of-the-earth types who work their problems out themselves and don't open up to a stranger about their secrets and personal problems. So, I squandered those last few precious weeks of health insurance coverage on very trivial boy troubles. Oh the lonely woes of a 22 year old girl.
It's gets better! I didn't check my bags at graduation. I was able to take a few things out and leave them in easily accessible storage locker in Pennsylvania, but I realize that I still schlepp a carry-on size bag of emotion turmoil pretty much daily in my adult life. The baggage is all in my mind, so sadly I don't get the toning effects of a regular carry-on. Luckily, I'm more self-aware now than I've ever been in my whole life. So why do I still carry the bags? Comfort. The answer came to me almost immediately. They're heavy and basically useless. But carrying them around is comforting. I own this bag, and I know what's in it and where it came from. It's mine. I earned it by living through it. I'm actually more afraid of what happens when I let it go. What will I do when I truly let go and can't use my baggage as a crutch? Or as an excuse for failure? That is terrifying. I'll have to really own up to my actions and realize I do indeed fail.
But all the best people do. I've learned that over the past year. Failing is part of the learning process. And I do absolutely want to grow and become better. I can't when my mental hands are full of excuses, resentments, and baggage.
So how? How do I put my bags down? Over the past year, I've been taking small pieces out of my luggage and evaluating them. Most I've been discarding small things here and there, lightening the load. There is one major issue that I just need to deal with. The most rational way to deal, in my open is to be completely honest and communicate all the thoughts, feelings, and angst left on the subject.
I'm not looking for solutions or fixes to the past problems. I'm looking to let go. Move on. Keep going. It's much easier to run when you're not dragging a lifetime of baggage
