Emotional Baggage Claim
- 11
- 09
- 09
You have emotional baggage. So do I. Plenty of it. Adulthood is about lugging invisible baggage that has accumulated over the years. Perhaps an overly simplistic theory, but I think more years means more baggage. I think the older we are, the more existential stuff we have to tote on our merry way.
This metaphor, like so many others, has become a cliche. We banter about it. We take it for granted. Everyone has baggage, we say. And it is true. Hackneyed or no, I like this metaphor (and cliches) and here on this Monday morning, I plan to unpack it. Feel free to help.
Packing. Are you a light packer or an overpacker? Do you think things through, pare it all down to the essentials or do you always bring more than you need? Is the methodology of packing up to us? Do some of us choose to bring with us only a few things, important things, that define who we are? Do others (hi, Me!) bring everything in case we might need it? How do you pack? Do you shove it all in? Or do you compartmentalize neatly: Here are Childhood Issues, Body Issues, Relationship Issues, Sexual Issues, Parenting Issues, Financial Issues. Can we really separate these things anyway? Life is turbulent. Contents might shift during flight.
Unpacking. This is when it gets interesting (for me). How do you unpack your existential suitcase? Do you unzip gingerly, take things out one by one, with thoughtful precision? Or do you whip it open and dump it all over? What is the appropriate rate at which to unpack your things? Is unpacking too slowly akin to being fake, to lying about who we are? Is unpacking too quickly, too recklessly, presumptuous, alienating, and ill-advised? And what about letting others unpack for us? What about letting spouses and shrinks and friends unload our things? Is this cheating? Is this lazy? Is this unavoidable? Is unpacking an inherently collaborative effort?
Blogging = Unpacking. I do not think that we bloggers have more existential baggage than our non-blogging counterparts. But we are interested in the art of unpacking. Each day, on this blog, I unpack something else. I pull it out, sniff it, examine the wrinkles. And then I show it to you. And in showing it to you, I am saying, This is a little piece of me, of what I’m lugging. This is a clue – for you and for me – about who it is I am at this very moment. And then the next day, I do the same. I pull out another item that, like it or not, belongs to me, another aspect of my evolution. And the very act – and art – of unpacking has its own cathartic appeal. It is a daily acknowledgment of the flawed self, of life’s load. And after days, and months, I can look back at my things, scattered about. And by reflecting on just how I unpack, and how quickly, and how insecurely, I can see a bit better who I am: I am a lost soul, at once fearless and full of fear, deeply flawed and seeking perfection, in love with life and love and little girls.
Emotional Baggage Claim. This is important. It is not a given that we can recognize our own baggage when it comes around on the belt. That misshapen duffel full of childhood issues? Not mine. That Louis Vuitton full of insecurities and fears? Nice bag, but the contents? Never.
At the end of every plane trip, you linger at baggage claim and watch the bags go by. If you don’t see your luggage appear right away, you panic. You imagine the worst. And then you entertain the What If. What if your baggage is gone for good? What if you had to start over? Accumulate items and issues, one by one, all over again? This thought is at once devastating and empowering. Faced with the prospect of being separated from your stuff, you realize that that stuff – however metaphysically jumbled it is in there – is part of who you are. And you realize that in losing those issues, those fears, those existential foibles, you would be losing yourself.
Losing yourself. There is something intriguing about this. Imagine ridding your identity of all of the pain, the regret, the scars. Imagine whittling that cumbersome baggage which you can hardly lift to a sleek little carry-on. Or to nothing at all. Imagine trooping through life with your hands free. There is something tempting about this. About not being weighed down.
But temptations fade and reality finds you once more. Your experiences and memories and tragedies, however bruising at times, are yours. It is these things that make you unique and discrete in this big, bad world. Removing these things would be like removing your DNA. Impossible. And at this impossibility, you smile. Your baggage is you. You are your baggage.
____________________________
Do you agree that accumulating existential baggage is part of living? Do you think that there are appropriate ways to pack and unpack our things? Do you think bloggers are in the constant business of unpacking?
I can...
I loathe this metaphor, precisely for the reasons you enumerate – overly simplistic, overused.
If we look at life as a journey, isn’t it only natural that we would have baggage of some sort, and for a long journey with many unknowns, even more to carry around?
Baggage = knowledge, experience, wisdom.
Baggage = pain, yes, but that is inevitable.
Baggage = resentment and anger, also inevitable.
It is up to each of us as we accumulate our knowledge, pain, and anger and transform those experiences, finding a personal alchemy that mixes them with joy, discovery, accomplishment – and teaches us to tread lightly where we must, sluggishly where we are not capable of doing otherwise, but carefully, when we are with others.
For me, words are my place of lost and found. “Baggage” serves to uphold my humanity even in the darkest moments, because that baggage is filled with color and texture, history and dreams. They all remain accessible; words free them. Transform them. Make room for more.
We are the baggage, the parcel, the entirety of our stories and responses to them.
Wow. Heady stuff for a Monday morning. Please pardon any clumsiness while I wobble through this intruiging topic.
“What is the appropriate rate at which to unpack your things?” This makes me think about the things I’ve unpacked on this blog since I started following it over the summer: Affectionate moments with my son, eating disorders, transparency with my parents, my prayer life, my engagement story, my level of satisfaction with my career, and division of labor with my husband. I rattle it off like that and it sounds like a lot. But as I’ve commented, little by little, it never seemed “reckless, presumptuous, alienating, or ill-advised.”
I wonder how my fellow regular commenters respond to this (Hello Christina, Mama, BLW, D, and Random Esquire!). Except for D, you all have public blogs also, so maybe it’s not so surreal for you all. But now my head is spinning with curiosity (and my own non-Ivy-League insecurities) about my levels of disclosure.
First – for Aidan – I may loathe the metaphor, but not the way you opened it up for discussion. (Just wanted to make that clear; you presented the metaphor in a fascinating context.)
Now – for Gale – I don’t think blogging is necessarily unpacking or unloading. There are journal-like blogs that seem more like a private place of revelation and discovery; the degree of detail and intimacy (without appropriate context) keeps me away from some of those. But if they serve as a means for someone to explore difficult experiences, or process new ways of thinking, then why not?
The blogs I love to read are like this one – they range in format and orientation, but ultimately, they reveal bits and pieces of the person writing, while frequently having a universally appealing message, or better yet – provocative questions. They read more like “columns” with greater intimacy and fewer rules and restrictions.
Do they disclose a great deal? Absolutely. Without those disclosures the author has little authenticity. And like characters in a story, we as readers wouldn’t connect to their lives emotionally. We wouldn’t care to keep reading. We wouldn’t be happy when they’re happy, and want to extend a hand when they need one. It is a special sort of storytelling and communication – and community.
The blogs I read are never “reckless, presumptuous, ill-advised,” etc. Most of them are touching, heart-breaking, wickedly funny, poignant, and damn good writing knowing that someone is pumping something out in pretty quick fashion and then getting on with the day – working, parenting, partnering, chauffeuring, commenting, reading, studying, and so on.
The down side – this is the world wide web. If you’re seeking employment (as I am), you don’t use your name. If you wish greater latitude in what you say (living in a conservative place, and also seeking employment in that place), you don’t use your name. If you have kids who might read you, you don’t use your name. If you wish to keep some sort of privacy – again – due to your circumstances (professional or personal), you don’t use your name. And I don’t speak about certain subjects, other than a general allusion. Some subjects, I will never speak of.
But I will appreciate reading of them in others’ writing. I will learn from what I read. I will be a “bigger” Big Little Wolf in the process.
Unpacking our baggage – that’s what Aidan asked about. There’s always an element of that, but is it a bad thing? I don’t think so. It’s all in the choice of words, isn’t it. “Unpacking our baggage” could just as easily be referred to as “telling our stories.” And this is what community and family have always been about. It may be virtual community, and virtual family, but it is no less real, and no less dear for some of us.
First, I will not be able to form such complete and eloquent sentences in response to this post. Just sayin.
I like the metaphor, and I love how you described it all. However, I don’t think I want to be *rid* of any of my baggage. I just want to learn how to carry it all, pack it well, and *find use* for all of it, at some point in time.
You amaze me, dear lady.
BLW – Thanks for your follow up. Interestingly, the blogs I read fit essentially the same descriptions as yours. I just hadn’t organized my thoughts about them in such a concise way.
While I am more seasoned in the world of private family blogs (my own blog is private and is almost 100% geared for out-of-town family who don’t get to see my son often), I’m newer to the world of public and topical blogs. But I’m finding that there are lots of fascinating people out there having truly interesting discussions online. And I’m really enjoying the shot of adrenaline they provide to my thought process.
To the extent I understand “existential baggage” and it’s been a loong day, so it is quite possible I am missing this entirely), I agree it is essential to living. We all have certain experiences that stay with us, positive and negative, that shape who we are and continue to be. Some of those experiences if they remain “packed” enslave us, forcing us to act in ways we wish didn’t but must because of this baggage. Others propel us forward, keep us going and motivated because we went through them.
?
As bloggers, I like to think you are using us, your readers, as your TSA. You aren’t so much unpacking but putting your baggage through our X-rays, revealing parts of yourselves as you continue on life’s journey. You open up to us and we examine it without really ever having to reveal anything of ourselves. We can be cruel, kind or ignore your baggage entirely but I think it takes courage to keep putting yourself out there.
As for me, I “unpack” through other means than a blog but I certainly process what I’ve been through, what is happening and where I am going, constantly. I am who I am because of all the terrible and wonderful things I have been through. While I would change the bad if I could, I really wouldn’t change the strength I gained from those tough times.
I’m not sure I answered this question at all, tomorrow can I comment on vaccinations or window treatments
My, my you’ve outdone yourself today. Wow!
I do agree that accumulating existential baggage is part of living. After reading your post and the comments I am changing my mind about “baggage”. I suppose I’ve always thought of baggage as being a negative, like you need to “get rid” of all your baggage but that would be equivalent to getting rid of yourself, right?
Interesting the question about appropriate ways to pack and unpack. I am Little Miss Organized with my stuff and how it’s packed and unpacked. I am seeing that I am Little Miss Organized too when it comes to revealing my thoughts and emotions. I want to control what people see and what they know about me. One thing at a time, well planned, well thought out. I am working on this, this letting go of control. Who knew my packing style said so much about my “packing style”?
I am in the infant stages of blogging and I can say that I set some rules for myself before starting. The blog is a way for me to unpack and it is a way for me to reveal myself. Writing is very powerful. I look back on just two months of blogging and I can see me and I have seen some surprises too. I don’t intend to be fake on my blog. I do intend to be careful about my baggage because ultimately my blog is not about me and at times I’ll need to stay out of the way of the better story.
Uh, hope that didn’t sound too cryptic.
Thanks for another post that made me think.
(Hi Gale)
I love the idea of unpacking = blogging, and D’s brilliant comment about putting baggage thru the X-ray machine to be examined by different eyes. I’m strangely comfortable with my own baggage, even if it’s not the healthiest carry-on to have. I tend to hoard things and usually prefer not to let go for sentimental reasons. Oddly shaped and bulky items which are probably poisonous have somehow become comforting to me and sometimes I need help wrenching them out of my grasp so I can learn to take a deep cleansing breath. But it’s others’ baggage which fascinates me the most: why do they choose to hold on to a particular item and let go of another one? I’m fascinated by the stories of how things got to this place and time.
I unpack my bags sometime between 3:00 AM and 4:30 AM when my inner voice is alone and in the quiet dark. No one but I can see the duffel’s guts. I accept its contents–the promises kept and broken, the thrills and failures, the ego-driven image I’d rather not promote. I stuff the baggage back into the belly of the plane, fall back to sleep until it’s light, and my feet one by one hit the floor. My husband brings me coffee, freshly brewed from our kitchen.