I hold on to things. No, I’m not a hoarder. But I keep things for a “just in case” scenario, or as a memento. I have a bunch of things I’ve saved over the years that I imagine going through with my kids one day, and telling them what happened during that time.
I have all of the tickets to my high school dances.
I have my first place ribbon I won in 7th grade for my performance in a skit from The Crucible at our drama Fall Festival.
I have a couple of my report cards from elementary school, and my only straight A one from high school.
Then, I have the keys to my first apartment.
That’s not normal. I should’ve returned them. The day that we moved from our apartment to our townhouse, shortly after I got laid off in 2011, I was going back in forth between the 2 places. I genuinely didn’t have my set of keys when we were returning them to the office. My ex returned his set, and I told the office manager when I found them, I’d mail them.
I never mailed them.
I’ve moved several times since then. First to the townhouse. Then back home. Then out on my own to a new apartment. Then a shared townhouse with roommates for a couple months. Then back home again. And now I’m in Texas.
And I still have those keys.
Obviously, they’re of no use to me 1,400 miles away, and they’ve probably changed the locks since then. Not that I would have any reason to go back. But for some reason, I can’t throw the keys away.
Part of me is like “no one throws away keys”, but I don’t know, maybe they do. But I think I’ve held on to them because they mean something to me, even now.
It was my first apartment ever. We moved in July 5, 2010. A one bedroom in Buena Park, CA on the 2nd floor. I was so excited to put together my own space, and I was head over heels in love. My parents weren’t happy when I announced it rather than asked for permission, but they eventually got okay with it.
I still think about that apartment a lot. I don’t need the keys to remember it. It was a milestone in my life of living “on my own”, with a significant other, paying bills, commuting an hour and a half to and from work. Apartment 1814 was a first for a lot.
I got to experience sleeping alone while my ex worked the graveyard shift. I got to experience a summer with only a room AC in the living room. I got to experience dividing chores with someone other than my brothers. I got to experience having friends over for drunken nights. I got to experience a couple real arguments, where one of us (actually both of us) storm out and drive in different directions, and come back and have to talk it out because, well, there’s really no where to run.
In my darkest days during my divorce, I had a love/hate relationship with these memories. There were so many nights where I wrote in my journal how much I missed 1814 and how carefree things were then. There were days where I wondered if I imagined some of those times because they were drastically different than what I was going through at that time.
The interesting thing about this digital age is that you can semi go back in time. I’ve gone back and read instant messages and tweets from that time, and I’m surprised by 1) how immature and annoying I sounded, ha, and 2) how depressed I claimed I was at times. I don’t say claim lightly. I’ve been diagnosed with depression since 2008. But it’s funny how in my actual darkest moments, I yearned for a time where I still wasn’t 100% happy.
Knowing what I know now, I lived in a dream world at 1814. It was 5 years ago, which is crazy to me. But it’s something I haven’t experienced since then. Living completely in unapologetically in the moment. It shouldn’t be reserved for times where you’re in love. It should be everyday. But sometimes (a lot lately) you get caught up in the hustle and bustle of everyday life.
So I guess I’m holding on to those keys until I can experience something similar. It’s a visual goal and reminder. It’s nice to have something to hold on to.
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