I've slept with the same pillow since I was six years old. When my mamaw died, my mom asked me if I wanted any of her things, so I chose her pillow--made of goose down and covered with a light brown pattern that had been further browned with age and the occasional snuff stain. The pillow protected me when I was younger when I would take trips away from my parents. Though she was only a total of 90 pounds, the pillow meant my mamaw was there, and I once believed that she could defend me against any monster, bully, or pain that the world had to offer. And the pillow became this thing that helped to nurse whatever I was feeling in my life, and over the years, the color was browned more and more with time. I replace the pillow case often, but underneath, I know that it's still there: the protection.
In recent years, the pillow is what I have fallen asleep with at night. I held it tightly against my chest in place of whomever I wanted to imagine it would be. Most nights, it's not so much a longing as much as it is habit. I hold on to whomever's identity I instruct the pillow to be, until the identity fades or is replaced by the next. But recently, I put the pillow away and stashed it in my closet because the dependency, even if just habitual, is unhealthy. I had grown tired of replacing identities because it seemed hopeless: an interest in someone who took it for granted.
The optimist in me believes in the pillow, and the realist inside me looks at it like Desdemona would: a means of suffocation. The pillow, something I love, is ultimately what kills me most.
And it's more than just a love thing. Sure, it plays an important part in most people's lives, but it really comes down to the general make up of human interaction, the give and take and whatnot. The reason that we find ourselves holding these pillows and writing this poetry and scrolling through our phones looking for a name we're comfortable enough to call is because we're missing something. We love the idea of knowing that someone is there, but when we have found that we're empty handed, or even worse... betrayed, we have to do something to compensate and deal with the loneliness. And you'd think that if we would take a moment to address why we're feeling the way we do--why we so desperately cling to the pillow--instead of trying to fix it, we might be able to accomplish a lot. We're a smart species, but we struggle so much identifying the cycle of our loneliness: someone was reckless with our heart, and we abandoned them. Those two words: reckless and abandonment.
These spoiled relationships are comprised of these two qualities, and they're two aspects that define human nature at it's most basic form. When we get comfortable, we become reckless with what we've been provided. It's a pattern that has repeated itself over and over throughout the course of human history, and with all the things we've destroyed, we still have not come to understand the power that we have. And with all the things we're capable of being reckless with, we are the only resource that has the ability to give feedback. Conversely, the other quality is one that any living creature can understand. When a person isn't feeling loved or a dog is getting beaten or a flower has been placed in the shade... all of those things attempt to abandon the situation. We need to feel nourished; we long to feel loved.
So, I've given you all these metaphors: the pillow, Desdemona, the flower in the shade. What does it mean? Well, to scale back and make it personal again, I've always been horrible at the cycle. Not so much the reckless part, even though we've all been at fault of being reckless with someone's feelings. It's more the abandonment. I like to believe that I'm pretty intrepid; if I find someone that I've ever deemed worthy of my time and compassion, I'll stick with them as long as I possibly can. That kind of dedication has proven to be dangerous in the past. With best friends and love interests, it always seems like only good can come from good intentions, but I've too often found myself in a situation where I care too much. And I push forward until I have nothing left to push with, and that's when I abandon ship. In my mind, I like to believe that a lesson can be learned from that, but ultimately those abandoned just find other people--people who similarly don't understand how to show they care, or potentially worse... can care as little as they do.
And as I've gotten older, like most things, it's hard to hold on to that hope. After a relationship gone awry and friendships gone astray and attempting to do that whole "coming of age" thing where you pick up this new life and try to hold on to the best things about being a child, I've become a little less apt to believe in the goodness of people and their intentions. We're so careless with each other's feelings because they're not tangible. We don't believe in their ability to scar and fray and tatter, and when they do, we surprise ourselves with the damage we refuse to take responsibility for. I was talking to my roommate who was, at the time, dating a girl he was admittedly not terribly interested in. It wasn't that he didn't like her... he just didn't like her enough. I tried to explain to him that the person who cares the least is the one with the most power. It's hard to explain the power that we can possess over one another.
In the face of all of that, I guess I had developed somewhat of a wall. I remember talking to people who just wouldn't let anyone in, and I pitied them for that. I was sad that they felt so alienated that they had finally just given up on the personal relationships they could potentially develop with people, but after the past year, I found that I had gotten to that point, too. I find myself struggling to trust people, and I've come to a place that when I've been burned, I can't find a reason to go back. I've come to a terribly sad place where I'm waiting on people to fail.
But, like most transitions in my life, it comes at a horrible time. I went home for a little over a week to collect my thoughts and emotions and try to put the pieces back together. I had decided that when I came back to my life in DC, I would rely less on those around me. I would not put weight in people because people lie and people leave. Even those at home are going to move on without you, and maybe it's just best to turn off that love you have for people. And in just over a week's time, I've already met new people and had people from before try and restore faith in our friendship, and I've had to ask myself Is it worth it? Because as many times as people may be reckless with you, you can't go through life abandoning the world. Life is too short, too fleeting for that.
And in my mind, a place I spend most of my free time, I tell myself that it's not worth it. People who have proven to not be trusted, should not be trusted. And in a way, people you haven't met shouldn't be given your trust to begin with. But last night, I spotted that pillow, the down pillow that has browned over the years. I put it up in my closet sometime in early December when I had just gotten to a point where I was over everything. And that's where my heart came in, because as many times as my mom asked me to throw that pillow away, I clung to it because I knew that it was worth more to me than what seemed logical. And sure, there are people and situations that are toxic--it's inevitable. But what I think is hardest is getting your mind and your heart to meet in the middle and determine what people and situations are actually worth it. It's a struggle I face everyday.
I pulled the pillow down and slept with it last night. I had no one in mind when I did because I don't think that's what the pillow is about. It's what I made the pillow become over the years, but when I think back to six years old and why I wanted it to begin with, it's because it reminded me of something familiar. It's small designs reminded me of the painted gold frame of my mamaw's bed, and the smell of tobacco reminded me of how often she would hug me. The pillow represents the love that another person can give another, and to abandon it... well, it would almost be reckless in itself.
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