Not too long ago, someone told me something that made me stop, think, and assess. It was just three little words. “You’ve got baggage.”
That’s it. Three little words that made me really consider their validity. My first thoughts were dismissive. “I don’t have any baggage,” I thought. “I got rid of all that with all the stuff I threw out.” And, to be honest, that was part of the reason I threw everything out: to get rid of things to carry.
I was moving out, and I was doing most of it myself, so I made the decision to just dump it. I had six bookshelves before I got started, and now I’m down to three (one of them only half full). Books I hadn’t read it years and didn’t ever plan on reading again. I was just collecting them, keeping them around. Some men show off their cars. I guess geeks show off their books. It didn’t stop with books. I got rid of CDs I never listen to anymore, clothes I didn’t wear, videos and DVDs I didn’t watch. I didn’t take any plates, silverware, pots or pans.
I took my computer, the desk it sits on, and a chair. I got a futon to sleep on. When I was finally moved in, I declared “Spartan is my new middle name!” The only thing I really need is my computer, and that isn’t even the truth. I could throw it away as long as I had hard copies of certain files on it.
Trappings don’t define me. What I own isn’t who I am. (Thank you, Mr. Palahniuk, for reminding me of something I’d forgotten.) I’d thrown away my past, and was ready to move on to the future.
“You’ve got baggage.”
Of course, I don’t! I got rid of it all. No photographs, no souvenirs, no mementos.
“You’ve got baggage.”
And I thought about it. For a long time. Still stunned by the statement weeks later. Baggage? Me? Nah.
Well, ever the Discordian double-agent, I decided to challenge my own assumptions and really think about it. Am I still carrying around the past?
When I died (on RPG.net, for all the world to see), something changed. I could feel it. She could feel it. Psychic assassination. If enough people believe it, it’s true, right? Something happened. I can’t explain it, wouldn’t try to explain it. Something happened. The John everyone knew died, and I was given a chance. A real chance. Reinvent him. Redefine him. Ditch all his old stuff and get on with new stuff. Start over. But, did I? I got rid of all the physical stuff, but do I still have a closet in my head that holds all the crap I’ve refused to let go of?
I don’t know. I’ve been slowly making contact with people I used to know, trying to re-build bridges that got burned. (Funny – my grandpa blew up bridges in WWII.) I’m assuming they feel like I do – all the stuff that happened in the past is the past. People change. They grow. Sometimes, they even grow up. I know I feel different about things now than I did way back then. Maybe they do, too. Maybe not.
“You’ve got baggage.”
Maybe. But, I’ve only got two hands, and it takes a while to put it all down.