I Put It Down

I put it down. I put it all down. Everything that happened to me; I no longer carry it around.

It’s still there, where I left it. Gathering dust like old furniture in an abandoned house that was once a home.

It all sits there, waiting for me to seek it out again. But I pretend it's not there. I haven’t regained all my strength yet. I cannot pick it up again; it’s too heavy to lug around.

But there’s a strange comfort in knowing where it is – in knowing that it’s detachable. It wasn’t always like that. It’s nice to know that it can be left behind.

It’s like I’m finally realizing that it is inanimate. It has no power. It’s not heavy – unless I choose to pick it up. I won’t.

But I like knowing that if I ever want to revisit and reevaluate all that has happened, it’s all stored away, in my old, abandoned house waiting for me to take a peek at all the lives I’ve lived, all that I’ve endured, and all that shaped me into this person who finally put it all down and restarted life.

Each time I visit that house, I notice the layers of dust growing thicker. I don’t visit as often as I used to. Sometimes I would end up staying for days, trying to look through the layers of dust at what once had been my life. On those days the house could overpower me – its door would grow too heavy for me to push open and leave.

But I’ve grown now. Older, stronger and wiser. I no longer allow the old house to overpower me. I don’t visit as often anymore. And when I do, I make sure to make the journey only on days when I feel strong enough to leave and lock the door behind me.

Lately I’ve been noticing the signs of a failing structure. The creaks get louder, and the cracks grow deeper. The house doesn’t look so strong anymore.

Perhaps like all old, abandoned structures, it’s almost time for this one to fall.

And then, I will never have to visit at all.