It's been 30 years, are you ever going to get over it?

When I was about three years old, we moved from the gas station to my White House.  At the time, it was a stately home and despite the colour, when I said I lived in the White House, people knew which house I was talking about.  It was on Main Street and even though it was decades ago, it was the first postal code I ever learned.  In our current lives of electronic bills and statements, I rarely use my current postal code.  When asked, I have to think because I still am tempted to give the postal code for my White House.  I was three doors away from the library and was allowed to walk there by myself.  I lived across the street from my Nana Grey and my Auntie Eileen and Uncle Jim.  I loved that house.  Now, it is green and has been renovated a few times. 

I loved everything about my childhood home, but I mostly loved my bedroom.  It was huge and my mother had an eye for interior design.  Most rooms were all painted or all wallpapered at the time.  My mother was ahead of her time in decorating.  Since it was a huge room, she used a combination of wallpaper and paint to make it look like three rooms.  I also had three windows facing three different directions. 

The smallest section faced west and the window looked out on Main Street.  It was a dormer window.  In that small section, I had a round wicker chair that was covered with a purple patterned cushion.  I also had a small table that held my stereo.  I don't think I can call it a stereo with a straight face because it really was a record player that played records and 45s.  (Oh, my goodnes, I am old.)  It also had a lamp for me to read while sitting on the chair.  I didn't often read there, but I used to stand on the chair to look out on Main Street.  That section was painted a light lilac. 

The middle section was wallpapered a purple and white flower pattern.  My bedspread and curtains were all purple.  The north facing window over my double bed had a view of the white wall of the Masonic Hall and that was it.  My mother draped floor length curtains over the window even though it was small and it looked like a canopy for my bed.  Next to my bed, there was a built in book shelf painted white.  I always read in bed and could reach my books easily.  When I was little, I could fit in one of the shelves and sometimes slept in the middle shelf.  When I was older, I loved looking at my book shelf.  I had the complete collection of Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, and The Bobsy Twins.  I read a lot and it was in this bedroom, I acquired my love of literature.  I remember the first book that made me cry, Anne of Green Gables.  My furniture was all white French Provincial.  Also, in this section, was my night table and my dresser. 

The final section had the largest window and it faced east.  My desk was under this window.  When I was in grade 3, I wanted to become a writer so I bought an electric typewriter all by myself with my own money.  (Money that had been given to me by my parents, mind you, but it was still my own money.)  I just loved sitting at my desk, looking out my window, and hammering away on my typewriter.  There were four small rubber tabs on the bottom of my typewriter which stained my desk. My mother and I fought about this often, but, eventually, she learned to live with this.  My dad traveled for his work but only one time was he gone for a whole week.  He went to Regina for a whole week and he was supposed to be back on a Friday night.  My mom and I were so excited that he was coming home.  My mom let me stay up really late this particular Friday in December, but she finally said I needed to go to bed and I would see my dad first thing in the morning.  I went to my bedroom but went staight to my desk so I could look out the window.  Finally, I saw my dad's car pulling in to the driveway.  I ran down the stairs and out the door and beat my mom to my dad to give him a big hug.  Something wet touched my face and when I stepped back, there was a little puppy wrapped in my dad's jacket.  I always wanted a puppy but my dad had always said no and now I had one.  It was silly but I thought my wish came true because I had stayed up and was looking out my window.  In addition to my desk, I had my armoire and my closet.  It wasn't an official walk-in closet, but it was walk-in for me and I had a full length mirror on one of the walls.  This section was the only section that was carpeted.  Purple shag carpet, of course.  Also, this section of the room was painted a darker lilac than the west section. 

All in all, a perfect room that I loved.  I loved the whole house, but I particularly loved my bedroom. 

To get to my elementary school, I went out the back door, out backyard, and to school.  I even started using the backlane to get to the library so I didn't often go to the front yard.  Except one day, in June of Grade 6, something told me to go to the front yard.  There was a "For Sale" sign on the lawn.  I assumed it was a mistake and ran to tell my mother.  It wasn't a mistake.  My mother told me why they were selling the house.  My dad was retired now and they wanted to travel more.  We had a huge garden and a huge backyard and my dad likely wouldn't be able to keep up as he aged.  Our house was old and likely would need a new furnace in the next couple of years, etc.  My mom said we were going to move into a townhouse complex where the lawn would be mowed and the snow shoveled so they wouldn't be tied down to a house anymore and they would be able to travel more.  Stop with this travel already.  You have a little girl to take care of.  You can't travel.  Plus, my dad is as fit as anyone.  He loves gardening, snow shoveling, and all that.  He even puts a Santa and his Reindeer display on our roof every December.  Who is going to be doing that, mother, have you ever thought of that?  My mother had no counter to my valid arguements so she closed the discussion. 

That was fine with me.  I was my dad's princess and had him wrapped around my little finger, I knew I could get him to reverse this catastrophic mistake.  I went into his den to have a discussion with him.  To my shock, my dad cut my prepared speech short.  He told me that it turns out that he and my mom were the adults in the family and as adults they were responsible for making decisions and they had made the decision to sell the house and move and that was the end of the discussion. 

I don't know what was more devastating, selling the house or my father not responding to my every whim.  I do know that I went to my bedroom and wailed.  I didn't cry, I wailed.  My bedroom.  What was to happen to my bedroom.  I was crying so hard that even my mom felt sorry for me and told me, "don't worry, the house probably won't sell because it has a gas furnace and everyone wants electric these days."  So, I had a glimmer of hope. 

The next day it sold.  We were moving in 30 days.  My parents had an auction because they were down-sizing.  The Santa and his Reindeer sold.  It was another reminder that it was the end of an era.  I sat in my bedroom and cried all of these 30 days.  My bedroom.  I loved my bedroom.  All I wanted to do was to sit in my beloved bedroom and cry. 

My mom invited some friends of mine over one day and gave us money to go to Dairy Queen in an effort to cheer me up.  We got our treats and were sitting in a booth.  Also, in the Dairy Queen was a group of boys.  They were high school boys.  We didn't know anyone in high school so we were afraid of these boys.  They were laughing and speaking loudly like high school boys do.  We were very quiet not to attract their attention.  Then, one of those boys came over to me and said, "I know you."  I froze not knowing what was going to happen next.  He said that his family had bought my house and he was going to take my bedroom.  My beautiful bedroom.  It was going to be occupied by a boy in high school, with all of his boy smells, and probably he was going to invite his friends over.   Oh, the horrors.  I couldn't even imagine. 

Then, when I got home, it turned out my mother used my absence to start packing up my bedroom.  The betrayal.  Could life get any worse?  Despite all my tears, we moved.  My furniture didn't fit in one of the bedrooms.  So, basically my bed was in one bedroom and my furniture was in another.  I didn't have a book shelf.  I had to share a book shelf with my father and he had a lot of books.  My collection of Nancy Drews, The Hardy Boys, and The Bobsy Twins were packed in boxes in the basement.  My mother suggested that I give them away to my niece or donate them to the library.  The look I gave her silenced her and she didn't bring up that ridiculous idea again. 

The new family renovated the house to accommodate the father's chiropractic practice.  They added a door directly to the basement.  They pained it yellow.  Plus, I had heard rumours that the parents sometimes went away on weekends and that high school boy who stole my bedroom threw parties.  These were only rumours, I told myself, as I couldn't even imagine what was going on in my bedroom. 

Time marched on and life did get better for me.  We moved out of the townhouse and into a house.  I gradually grew to love my new bedroom and our new house created many happy memories.  Ironically, our new house had a bigger garden and more grass to cut and more snow to shovel.  My dad did it and I resisted the urge (sometimes) to say, "I told you so." 

Many years later, a guy approached me at a social.  It was the guy who stole my bedroom.  He didn't recognize me this time.  So, just thinking of my bedroom, I went on and on about it and described every square inch and every memory I had in my perfect bedroom.  After going on for twenty minutes, he was able to get a word in.  He said, "well, I was going to ask you to dance, but I think I will pass now.  Have a nice life."  Like, I would ever dance with the guy who stole my bedroom. 

Many more years later, I returned to my home town to attend the funeral service of a very dear friend who passed too early.  Even though I drove several hours to pay my respects to my friend, I don't remember any of the service.  I just sat in my seat and seethed.  After the service, it was time to shake hands with the family and the Pastor.  When I shook the Pastor's hand, he said that I looked familiar.  "Yes", I replied, "you stole my bedroom."  He hugged me and said, "first of all, I didn't steal anything, my father legally bought the house, and secondly, it has been 30 years, are you ever going to get over this?"

I waited until I got into my car and then I started laughing.  I laughed a long time.  I couldn't believe how much time I had been holding on to this negativity.  As it turns out, negative emotions love each other.  They feed on each other.  I may not have realized it but every time something bad happened to me in life, I was piling on this resentment over my bedroom.  I kept borrowing from the past every time things weren't going perfectly.  I always had this "perfect bedroom stolen from me" in the bottom of my stomach to help make my negative emotions bigger.  I had a problem. 

It turns out this Pastor is one of the best guys ever and has helped many and contributed positively to the community.  I was too busy seething to hear his message or to adequately participate in my friend's celebration of life.  How selfish was I? 

Also, holding on to my resentment over my bedroom was accomplishing nothing.  Nothing was ever going to bring my bedroom back, nor would I even want it back.  It was a great bedroom for me when I was in elementary school and that was it.  It was probably better that we sold the house when it was perfect and before I started having issues with it.  Also, nothing could take away all the memories had.  And, it probably wasn't perfect anyway, I had just made it perfect in my mind. 

There was only one unanswered question.  Did I need therapy or would I be able to let go of this on my own?  Well, I was able to remember the stages of grief.  Denial,  Anger.  Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.  Well, it really had taken me 30 years.  The denial and anger and bargaining went pretty quickly.  My mom helped with the denial telling me that the house probably wouldn't sell.  I think my anger was the greatest because my dad didn't let me have my own way and not sell the house.  Believe me, in those 30 days to move day when I was crying up in my bedroom, there was a lot of bargaining with God going on.  I would be the perfect daughter if only I could keep my bedroom.  I wouldn't describe the depression as clinical depression, but I could certainly bring up "you stole my bedroom" in under 2 seconds so it was obvsiously pretty close to the surface.  Finally, acceptance.  I was now able to laugh about this and how silly my behavior was. 

I didn't need therapy.  I needed some common sense.  And, just like that (after 30 years), I let it go.  I could literally feel lighter and I sat up straighter.  I sat in my car and laughed a few more minutes. 

I went back into the Church.  I spent time with the family and cherished my friend.  Then, I sat down and had coffee with the Pastor.  He is a great guy with vision.  He was only filled with compassion for all and positive thoughts.  I was able to see that because I had let go of that negative energy inside me so I had room for the positive. 

On the ride home, I reviewed other grudges that I was holding on to.  They certainly weren't hurting the ones who I had grudges against.  They probably didn't even know I was holding the grudges.  The only one that was hurting was me.  Again, holding on these negative emotions was just making my current negative emotions bigger.  Silly.  So, I took a deep breathe in and exhaled deeply.  I let them go.  It turned out, it took a lot of breathes to let it all go and it didn't happen over night, but it did happen. 

It is the most simple and complex thing ever.  Let it go.