Let’s Talk About: Object Permanence
Out with the old…
And in with the new.
I cling to my shoes like they’re a lifeline, even though they have turned a sad gray color from what was once a shiny black leather. A sizable hole has protruded where my left foot’s bunion resides and the heels have worn down lopsided, announcing my tendency to lean in when I walk to those that pass me by. Don’t ask me about the smell. I’m sure you can imagine. They’ve been in my life for a little over four years—my first pair of Doc Martens. Still, it pains me to toss them away. like they meant nothing. like they don’t have a story of their very own. They are now probably traveling to a nearby landfill, too shabby to salvage or donate, sitting in a trash bag among heaps of other garbage.
Those Oxford Docs have allowed me to travel the vastness of western and central Europe. They have walked me to protests back in 2016 to fight for my rights. They have taken me to work through the transit systems of Boston, New York City, Berlin, Prague, London, and beyond. They have helped me hustle away from those that purr at me on the street, the ones that think I owe them something. They have helped shape my identity as a lesbian—a queer woman. Shoes are your own personal vessel. They are the things that take you where you want to go and protect your own bodily entity from harm's way. They have shown me love and tenderness, and most importantly, they have shown me permanence.
I’ve found that because of my constant uprooting during my childhood, much of my anxiety and OCD manifests themselves in unhealthy attachments to material objects. Hence, the number of “collections” I have and the very little space I have to house them. Whether it’s clothes, postcards, pin back buttons and enamel pins, rings, smushed pennies—you name it, I’ve probably collected it before. Luckily my tendencies have not lent themselves to a hoarding-esque situation, but it has led to many a panic attack and more meltdowns than I can count.
Traveling from country to country, state to state with my mother, father, and brother hasn’t necessarily been a walk in the park. Though I’ve seen and been exposed to more than my fair share of the world at such a ripe age, marveling at foreign museums and cultural artifacts, watching television in other languages, and meeting all kinds of extraordinary people, it’s led me to be wary of establishing roots anywhere that I go. A fear of commitment, of staying too long, of making friends that I’d eventually have to leave, of making any particular space my home.
Growing up my OCD and anxiety manifested in obsessive hand washing to the point where my knuckles cracked and bled. It was doing everything in even numbers. It was constantly asking my mother, “Will I die if I touch this?” It was erasing so roughly that I’d tear holes in my school papers. Compulsions so strong that they held me back, they kept me from starting new ventures, fearful of failure. They were ways to control my surroundings, to take charge, grab life by the horns, and be the maestro of my life. But that is starting to change.
As someone with OCD and anxiety that stems from my upbringing, I’ve had to find ways of coping on my own as I wade through the world, finding my footing alone. Literally—hence the shoes. That might mean learning to part with some of the things that keep me comfortable in my anxiety-ridden state. It means being more decisive about the things i choose to keep in my presence and learning to understand the value of memories over the objects that hold those memories. But that doesn’t mean throwing it all away, it just means that I’m shifting the way that I view my vices. Embracing them and managing them. It means throwing out the old Docs and welcoming in some shiny new ones, letting go of things that no longer serve me. It also means tossing out those year-old receipts and limiting the amount of perfume I buy until the other bottles are empty. Though I don’t always want to throw away things that acquire meaning, we have to find ways to make way for the new, no matter how small. For me--that meant tossing my Docs and making space for something fresh and exciting. It means taking a photo of something rather than holding on to it.
Below are some things that I’m working on to help me manage my clutter while embracing maximalism. (Like any other sensible person, I’m still working on these and they probably will be work-in-progress’s for the foreseeable future, but it’s good to get in the habit of thinking about these things more often.)
You CAN collect things. It’s completely normal, but try to be mindful of the number of collections that you have. Think 3-4 rather than 7-8.
Before you buy or obtain something, think: Do I have the space for this? Will this bring me happiness when I use it or look at it? If the answer is no, then perhaps you move on to something different or skip the purchase altogether.
Of the things I already have, are there any that I can part with to make way for something new? Or has my collection reached its limit?
Is there a more efficient way to store my belongings? Will organizers help you or will they enable you to make space for more objects.
Are there things that I could collect that would satisfy my want for a collection without taking up enormous amounts of space? Think small and manageable.
