I once knew a woman who I once called a friend.
She was a friend because I called her that. But she wasn’t really worthy of the title. Even in the beginning, when I thought we were close, she did things that suggested otherwise.
She talked about me behind my back. But she smiled to my face. She lied to me. And when caught in lies, she would tell more lies. She used me. But since I didn’t see myself as having anything worthy of being used, I let her get on with it.
She did all the things that an enemy would do.
But because she was my friend, she couldn’t be my enemy.
So I kept her in my life closet, toward the back on a hanger marked, “for one day.” Since I assumed that one day, she’d stopped doing these bad things and just be my friend. I just wanted a friend then.
But then in January of this year, with my commitment to courage, I started cleaning out my closet. I started cleaning out the things I never wore, the things I wanted to wear but that looked horribly on me, and all the other things that got in the way of me seeing everything else, or that space in between my clothes and the white wall, that space between what was and what could be, what really is.
I got rid of her in that cleaning bit.
I put our relationship in a bag with navy and black suits, faded baby clothes, unbecoming stretch jeans, and over-sized maxi dresses that once looked good but that did little to speak to the kind of woman that I am becoming, the kind of woman I am.
I put all that stuff in a bag marked “for giveaway” and someone else picked them up, I think.
I don’t really know who has those things now. I don’t know what happened to all that stuff, but it’s not with me anymore. So since I can’t see all that stuff, all that stuff is no longer relevant to me anymore.
I mean, I do, at times, have memories of what once was. The sweater that was worn to the party at the first job I ever worked. That woman, or friendship that was bad but that could have changed with divine intervention and Dr. Phil. “Should I really have given that away?” “I could have maybe used it.” Maybe if I gain more weight or get a better mirror to see things.” I do this but then I look at the wonderful things that are left and that beautiful space in which those things once hung, and I forget again. I don’t remember, again. And in my forgetfulness, I smile.
Letting things go is a muscle, the more you use this muscle, the better you get at it.
I’m getting good at it now.
When’s the last time you let go of something that proved beneficial to your life? What was it?