I quit Intel. That's right, an undergrad, whose curriculum in materials science & engineering holds silicon on a platinum pedestal, left the biggest semiconductor processing chip company in the world. Most of my interactions thus far have only cared about the why are you here? why leave? But, I've become increasingly aware of the How. How do I reaffirm my independence? How do I use this time rather than make it a second summer break? How do I continue to fuel my passion if the kindling of an unfulfilling job is smoldering? HOW DO I MOVE BACK IN WITH MY PARENTS?!
I won't leave you without context, without the Why: my moment of clarity came when I was locking the door to my apartment of two months. I've locked the door to many rooms before, but this moment has been the most... liberating-- the epitome of moving on. I lingered and stared through the half closed door. There was the kitchen that's seen more moldy dishes than food. There were the french doors whose blinds were always drawn and locked tight so that not a ray of sunshine wriggled through. There was the living room that begged for company, but only served as a place for my anguish and tears. Like saying adieu to your childhood doll house, I whispered a bittersweet good bye to my apartment and to the raggedy girl that haunted it.
It was strange. Opening a new chapter in life was always nervously exciting, but I never felt so conscious of the closing of a chapter. I wanted to rush back in and fall back into the fetal position on the ground. The chain of complacency clung to my heart, but couldn't get a grasp on my head. This is where I was at my lowest, where I couldn't feel a future, and where I threatened the relationships that feed me. It's time to leave that lifeless doll behind and become a real girl.
So what's the first step in becoming a real girl living in your parents' home? Cleaning out your old room. OH, GOOD LORD (#firstworldproblems). To give you some scale of the monster of nostalgia that's lived in my room, here's a list of some things I've found thus far:
Not to mention about a dictionary's worth of writing from my middle-high school self that reeks of both forced and genuine teen angst. Finding and absorbing myself into these "treasures" was altogether upsetting, hilarious, and difficult. Not knowing the etiquette of handling precious material memories I've been tossing any and all school/artwork into the rubbish bin. Stories, poems, and even cartoons were haphazardly tossed by the hand that spent hours carefully crafting them. Worksheets and notes that were kept for future reference have met their obsolete end.
These stuffed toys and homecoming dresses are powerful reminders; our five senses spark the synapses of a degrading memory. But what are these reminders if they're shoved into the nooks of our homes, suffocated by other precious reminders? I have little remorse. If I could, I'd dump my room into the ocean. Ariel can fill ten troves with my junk. But for now I have to endure the dust and cobwebs, recount slivers of my past and decide if the material object is just as valuable. My room is less of a fire hazard and less of the angsty cavern it once was, but in no way is it less Me. I am Me and my memories have molded Me into that person.
Moving is an amazing act. Not the act of physical relocation that incites one to buy new furniture from Ikea, but the closure of what once was and the bright-eyed movement toward what you'd like to be. Moving is like packing a little piece of yourself into a box and hiding that away in your soul's garage where it's safe.
I won't leave you without context, without the Why: my moment of clarity came when I was locking the door to my apartment of two months. I've locked the door to many rooms before, but this moment has been the most... liberating-- the epitome of moving on. I lingered and stared through the half closed door. There was the kitchen that's seen more moldy dishes than food. There were the french doors whose blinds were always drawn and locked tight so that not a ray of sunshine wriggled through. There was the living room that begged for company, but only served as a place for my anguish and tears. Like saying adieu to your childhood doll house, I whispered a bittersweet good bye to my apartment and to the raggedy girl that haunted it.
It was strange. Opening a new chapter in life was always nervously exciting, but I never felt so conscious of the closing of a chapter. I wanted to rush back in and fall back into the fetal position on the ground. The chain of complacency clung to my heart, but couldn't get a grasp on my head. This is where I was at my lowest, where I couldn't feel a future, and where I threatened the relationships that feed me. It's time to leave that lifeless doll behind and become a real girl.
So what's the first step in becoming a real girl living in your parents' home? Cleaning out your old room. OH, GOOD LORD (#firstworldproblems). To give you some scale of the monster of nostalgia that's lived in my room, here's a list of some things I've found thus far:
- 2 garbage bags of clothing
- 1 garbage bag of purses
- 6 new photo albums
- 3 overly priced concert books (Backstreet Boys, N*SYNC, James Blunt)
- 4 medium trash cans of high school papers
- 10 notebooks at least half empty
- and a stack of books about 5 feet high found under my bed.
Not to mention about a dictionary's worth of writing from my middle-high school self that reeks of both forced and genuine teen angst. Finding and absorbing myself into these "treasures" was altogether upsetting, hilarious, and difficult. Not knowing the etiquette of handling precious material memories I've been tossing any and all school/artwork into the rubbish bin. Stories, poems, and even cartoons were haphazardly tossed by the hand that spent hours carefully crafting them. Worksheets and notes that were kept for future reference have met their obsolete end.
These stuffed toys and homecoming dresses are powerful reminders; our five senses spark the synapses of a degrading memory. But what are these reminders if they're shoved into the nooks of our homes, suffocated by other precious reminders? I have little remorse. If I could, I'd dump my room into the ocean. Ariel can fill ten troves with my junk. But for now I have to endure the dust and cobwebs, recount slivers of my past and decide if the material object is just as valuable. My room is less of a fire hazard and less of the angsty cavern it once was, but in no way is it less Me. I am Me and my memories have molded Me into that person.
Moving is an amazing act. Not the act of physical relocation that incites one to buy new furniture from Ikea, but the closure of what once was and the bright-eyed movement toward what you'd like to be. Moving is like packing a little piece of yourself into a box and hiding that away in your soul's garage where it's safe.
How'd I forget to respond?? Moving can be refreshing, as you say. It can also be a time of reflection, which it sounds like it is to you. Again, I recommend you saving everything you think you may want to see later---one box in the garage is a low price to pay for keeping memories that may be meaningful to you.
ReplyDeleteGirl, at least you have your own room to come back to. >.<
ReplyDelete=) damn moving. I feel like I do it too much. and right now, it's mostly me just trying to fit myself into place back home. It helps that Moshy isn't here, so I kinda have a place in his room, but I haven't lived in this room since before I was 13. Space is another issue. My family has amassed so many items in my absence that I felt like I had to get rid of a lot of stuff when I came back. And we're discovering quickly who the packrats of the fam are: Daddy and sister. Kaela NEVER wants to get rid of clothing or stuffed animals. We're trying to get her to part with things earlier. Dad is probably the worst collector...probably because he's always working. He doesn't have time to come home and go through his stuff (I'm talking BASEMENT, here.) He also has a thing about not wasting things. I think we're just going to have to get out the trash cans and get it over with soon.
My advice? Try to make some money off of your discarded treasures. Those homecoming dresses are probably still in good condition! Sell em!
I'm glad you're taking the time to see how your material objects reflect the person you want to be...but don't forget that "old you" is still a part of "new you"...and that someday you might want to remember these things that defined "old you"---hehe, I'm keeping my journals to show my kids (that I'm still not having) that I was an angsty teen once, too. =)