I look forward to the surreal Christmas-slash-PTSD experience I’m sure to have when we move back into the house and I get to unpack the boxes that contain all our other worldly possessions. Then I get to relive the the whole throwing out & cleaning up process.
Oh joy.
Can’t wait to finally see what did and didn’t survive. (Right now, I can still think that maybe-that-thing-is-in-a-box-in-the-garage. Afterward, the denial kicks in for real. Oh, yeah, and then the shame about the denial. And so on. It’s a slippery slope.)
I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am.
How do you know that you have existed? In time? In YOUR lifetime? Most of us keep mementos: photos, ticket stubs, programs, cards, that sort of thing. But along with everything else, I lost all of those things. From 30someodd years! (The easiest to give up: journals. 75lbs of bad, teen-angst writings! Best psychological diet I ever tried! The hardest: photos.)
So, kids, the rhetorical question here is: once the proof of your previous existence vanishes, did you exist before?