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Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Ghosts

I've learned a lot from Disney movies over the years.  For instance, I know not to touch the spindle on the spinning wheel, ALWAYS be home by curfew, my nose will grow if I tell a lie, and that the pleasantly plump fairies are the nice ones (c'mon, y'all know Tinkerbell was kind of a brat).  I also learned from a little monkey (I think he was a monkey) named Rafiki, "the past can hurt. But the from way I see it, you can either run from it, or... learn from it." 

I've made some mistakes in my life. There are some mistakes that honestly I would probably make again, and others I would not. I have periods, seasons, hell, even years, of my life that I wouldn't mind just erasing from my memory. Those nights I wasted crying over a boy? I wish I could have those back. The times I stayed in bed all day because I couldn't think of a reason to get out? Yep, I wish I had those back too.  I have learned from my past, and I continue to learn from it, but it's time to get away from the memories.

I have always been a fan of haunted houses. The one at Walt Disney World (I promise that Disney is not sponsoring this post) remains my favorite ride of all time, and the one at Camden Park is clearly a close second.  I chose my hotel for a conference in San Antonio this summer partially because it is said to be haunted by almost three dozen ghosts.  But what I have recently realized is while I don’t have doorless chambers with hinges creaking, or candlelights flickering where the air is deathly still (maybe because Megan McCarty says I am not allowed to burn them) I am living in a haunted house. And when it's your life and not a theme park ride, it's not nearly as fun.

There is nothing in my townhouse that really resonates as a great time in my life. I am not saying that in the seven years I've been here, nothing good has happened to me, but it seems my house reminds me of all of the bad things:  shattering my wrist, the death of my three remaining grandparents, mean words and hurt feelings, the times when I was so sad I didn’t want to get out of bed. Sometimes I am in a certain place in my house and, like a scene from a TV show that you think is exaggerating the way people remember things, I will have a flash of something (or someone) that I would really rather not remember.  It's too much.

A few weeks ago, a friend on Facebook was moving out of one house into another, and wrote a status lamenting leaving her house full of memories to move to a new one.  As soon as I read it, I realized how much I could NOT identify with it.  Please understand, this is not the reason I want to move, and I am not running from my past, I'm just moving on with my life.  

So all of those memories, all those sad times, all those people I would rather not remember, they can stay here in this cute townhouse (that I will sell to you for a steal!) but I am not staying.  I'm moving on, and making new memories. 

But only good ones this time.

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