A friend of mine once told me I was a walking hyperbole. I’ve kept the definition with me through the years – mostly, because it’s hilarious, and also because it’s melodramatic and honest – two things I try very hard to be as often as I can.
I’ve never loved the idea of doing things in any way that doesn’t make an impact. Like most everyone on the planet, I’d like for my life to mean something. So I try to do things that matter. That’s me at my very core I suppose. That filters into everything, though – I don’t believe in coincidences because I’d like to think actions matter and are often meant to be; I try to be intentional with the things I say and do; I attempt to tell people how special they are to me as regularly as I can because I want everyone I love to end their days knowing how important they are to me, at the very least.
But I’m also very terrible at letting anything go – because everything and everyone meant something at some point. It’s a bit humorous the amount of cardboard boxes and tissue paper I save – because what if I need it later. That’s a silly illustration, yes; however, it’s kind of how I think about life. I have a desk full of greeting cards at my parents’ house and another box I’ve saved in the years since I’ve moved away from them. I still have t-shirts from old boyfriends, because they really are the most comfortable. I’m not on bad terms with anyone I’ve ever dated – to my recollection, at least – and feel like I could call any one of them if I needed anything.
I suppose I just realized how exhausting that is, though. To carry around all of this baggage – memories of things that didn’t work and people who didn’t love me. Why do they get so much of my life – still? The answer is simply that I’m that kind of person, probably – and I don’t expect to go changing that at the drop of a hat. But why, under the guise of any reasonable thought – would I walk around caring nearly as much as I do about people who didn’t care nearly as much about me as I did about them?
I don’t mean this in a resolution-y way or anything like that, but I think I’m pretty much done. I’m tired.
I walk around this amazing little town I’m in and meet wonderful people – warm hearts I should want to know more about, but I don’t get to know them. I say it’s nice to meet them and maybe talk about seeing them at something later down the line, but it’s nothing more than polite pleasantries that I rarely follow up on. I get in my car and turn on whatever words sound like home for a minute, and I equate them to people who aren’t around me anymore. I crawl into bed and say my prayers when I remember to do so, and I daydream a little, and then when I’m lucky I dream for real. And they’re never about any of those people I just met.
And that’s just not fair.
In an ideal world where I’m far less emotional than I actually am, I’d decide to be better about all of it – I’d forget those memories until appropriate times for nostalgia and I’d do my best to find some things that make my heart beat a little faster. I’d surround myself with as much of that as I could. And that would be quite sufficient indeed. And life would go on like it seems like it does for most people.
But that seems just as exhausting.
So, for now, I guess I’ll just work on being done. I’ll work on letting go.
To quote my sometimes favorite sometimes most hated scene from Love Actually:
“Enough now. Enough.”