My Bathroom Bag

I actually thought of a very attractive, creative title for this blog. But I figured the title I ended up going with would draw more attention and it's really at the heart of what I'm trying to say. I've said it before and I'll say it again--I'm no Dickens or Austen. But I have my own style.

So let's talk about the concept of home. Because that's REALLY changed for me this year. It's odd. Because I had never known what it was like to not have a concept of home, and in one way, it's been good for me to experience this. Beginning last winter after my ex made the final decision to be done, I began packing up my bathroom bag and backpack on as many weekends as I could and spending those weekends in Coeur d' Alene or Spokane with my family or two of my closest friends.

 You see, the primary reason the news was kept silent for so long was because I acquiesced to the final request of my ex--and probably shouldn't have.  He asked that I not say anything about it so that news did not get back to his immediate family before it was over. While I disagreed with a lot of what he said at the time, I agreed here. Those of you that know the story of what happened with his immediate family will understand. Those of you who don't--well, just trust me (and buy the book..haha that's my new response for when I have to explain something somebody won't get...'just get the book'). So one thing I didn't need in addition to everything else was dealing with more hell from his immediate family. They'd wreaked enough havoc in my opinion so when he requested I not tell anyone, I agreed and stayed silent. My family knew. A few of my graduate school friends knew (though none of my instructors knew until I got a verbal wrist slap from one of my profs when I nearly failed a midterm...for the first time, ever, just by the way. His less than well taken accusation of 'you must not be studying enough' was met with a few choice adjectives and then an embarrassed mumble about getting a divorce as I sort of fell into the chair in his office. He shut up, sat down, and told me of his own divorce, which also happened when he was in grad school). And no worries. We're ok now and that was my only grad school 'B.'

Anyway. While this was a good decision in that I didn't have to deal with the RIDICULOUS fallout until after I had surfaced somewhat from the initial wave that brought me under and nearly killed me, it also brought consequences. I did not post on Facebook that I was single until a few weeks after it was final in late April, just before I left for Thailand. I strategically planned it this way so that I would have an excuse to ignore the fallout until I had begun the healing process. How is this negative? Very few of my close friends, and none of the FB crowd knew my marriage was over until months after I did. While they were shocked and asking about the possibility of reconciliation, I was in Thailand, finally healing, understanding God's hand in my life with the immediacy of it all behind me...and thinking...you all have no freaking clue. And whose fault is that? Mine.

But as usual, I've digressed. Let's get back to the bathroom bag. I'm a 'smell' person. The scents of old lip glosses I find in boxes bring back memories of high school days or tennis lessons years ago. I'm a creature of habit and habits remind me of things. So the moment it all fell apart in my lovely little apartment in Moscow, I became a caterpillar with a cocoon that wasn't a cocoon. I packed up my bathroom bag and moved my shower things and makeup from my exquisitely decorated master bathroom to the bathroom in my spare bedroom. He spent weeks in the city where he worked (oddly arranged all too quickly, if you know what I'm saying..and if you don't, well, read the book). I spent weekends in Spokane with close friends or in CDA with my parents so he could come home and repack for the following week. Or sometimes, if I had too much work or studying to do, I would simply spend weekends in Pullman with friends there. With our lease up in May and process begun in February, we had a few months to get through all of this.

I began dreading the process of unpacking the bag and repacking it every weekend so I began to keep all of my bathroom things in my travel bathroom bag all the time--hair spray, makeup, facial cleansers. This way, I avoided dealing with repacking every week and sort of slapping myself in my face with my situation. Packing and repacking reminded me of my divorce, so my solution was, let's not pack and repack. Let's stay packed! "So there! Take that, Bathroom Bag!!! You think you're gonna shove my divorce in my own face. I DON'T THINK SO!!! I'll show you who's boss!"  I began bringing that with me to and from the apartment. In February, I lost my concept of home.

It didn't smell right. When I walked in the door after a long day at work or school, it was dark. I was alone. My things were on the walls and my dishes were in cupboards, but it was as if none of it was mine. The life was dissolving right before me. And I was powerless. It didn't smell like home. It smelled like stress and confusion and helplessness...and my ex. It didn't look like home because all the blankets and furniture reflected memories that were crumbling.

One of my now close friends was a classmate last spring. I met him in class shortly before everything happened. He didn't find out about my divorce until shortly before the end of the semester. We had a communications ethics class together--my favorite class of last spring and the class that saved my life each week at times (read the book). When describing his interactions with me in class prior to finding out what was going on, this is the paraphrased version of what he said (and please feel free to correct me if you read this, JMac):
    'I remember you coming into class, usually flustered or stressed out. After class began, you'd sit there and stare blankly until something caught your attention and then you were immediately caught up in this sort of fast paced glow, suddenly excited and talking a mile a minute and asking questions you and pretty much all of us couldn't answer.  You were unafraid to share your thoughts or questions, whatever they were and rambled on entertainingly. Then just before class would end, you'd pack your bag and look serious and stressed out and sad all over again. I didn't really know what to think. But I knew you didn't want to go back to something that this class distracted you from.'


I would drive "home" on the freeway between Pullman and Moscow and dread what I would go back to. I began to spend long hours at the gym, working out as late as possible. Since I wasn't sleeping a lot, I would leave as early as I could, hiding out on campus before, after, and in between classes.

I finally moved out in April, right after classes were over and just before Thailand. I also spent spring break in Seattle and remember packing my bag for that as well as I spent a week with friends who I basically lied to. I remember sitting in the hotel thinking I didn't feel any less at home there than I did at my apartment. When I moved out in April, I moved to CDA with my parents for a few weeks before my summer semester abroad began. While I felt safe for the first time in several months, I didn't feel like it was home. None of my art was up. None of my things were around. I loved being home, but it wasn't my 'home.' I didn't unpack my bathroom bag there either because I knew I was leaving again soon.

So the bathroom bag came with me to Thailand and I didn't unpack it the first week as we traveled around the country as we were in different hotels each night. I didn't unpack it when we finally got to school in Chiang Mai where we were for six weeks. There just wasn't room. And when I came back to CDA to spend the summer with my family again, I still didn't unpack it. I just tucked it under the counter in my bathroom and unpacked toiletries every day like I'd gotten so used to. By this time, I'd been doing that for nearly four months.

I spent my summer in CDA and also spent several weekends in Spokane with close friends...bathroom bag went with me every time and I never unpacked or repacked it. When I visited Pullman again before I moved to Portland to finish school, I stayed with friends there and the bathroom bag came with me. When I drove over to Portland with just enough, the bathroom bag sat next to me on the passenger seat of my car. I didn't unpack it when I first moved here and I didn't know where I would live permanently so during the first month here in my month-to-month lease, it sat on the counter in my bathroom. I never unpacked it. When I drove back to Pullman for my defense in November, the bathroom bag came and went with me. When I finally found an apartment I liked close to work and signed a lease, I moved in and put it on the bathroom counter. Would I unpack it? The day I moved in, even I didn't know.

I sat on my bed and realized I didn't know how long I would be here but wow..it would be longer than I'd been anywhere else during the year. Did that make this place, these walls home? And I realized that 'home' has taken on a new concept. My mom and dad smelled like home. My littlest sister's laugh sounds like home. The amazing mega-enthusiasm that greeted me when I got home from work during the summer by my family--that felt like home. My best friend, who showed up in several locales this year, smelled and sounded like home. My friends in Spokane? The smell of their house and the scent of their couch pillows seemed like home. I insisted on sleeping on the couch when I stayed there instead of the guest bedroom because of this and I don't know if I ever told them.  I realized that even when I visited Pullman for my defense and saw three of my best friends, they seemed like home, laughing with them, hugging them--the scents of their perfume/cologne were all familiar and pleasant.


There have been several times that Thailand felt more like home than actual home did. Why is this? I've tried to figure that out all year. I think it's because Thailand was a temporary home and that was understood. Now, I'm supposed to be 'home.' What does that even mean? I don't know how long I will be in Portland or how long I'll be doing what I'm doing. The dust is settling now. Just because the dust is settling doesn't mean everything goes back to normal. Usually events that occur that cause dust to fly up in the air and have to settle in the first place sort of imply a lack of things remaining as they were before the event occurred. Make sense? The dust is settling. So what do I see around me now? A home? No.

So if you didn't get bored and stop reading a while ago, you may be wondering what the current status of my bathroom bag is. You're probably hoping for a happy ending. I have some of my art up now (limited though because my apartment being a constant construction zone doesn't help the whole notion of home at all, though having a lovely renovated little place all to myself and a proud, happy landlady is awesome:). My bathroom is relatively small with little cabinet space, but big enough. Satisfactory I would say. I'll be here for a while, obviously. So I suppose I'm settling in.

Yet despite my lovely chimney, and lovely brand new kitchen, and my lovely view of Mt. Hood, and despite the art that's on the walls, my bathroom bag sits on my counter--filled with my hair irons, my makeup, my nail polish. The glass cabinet above my sink? It's empty. The cabinet below my sink? It's also empty unless I have guests over, in which case I shove the bathroom bag into the cupboard. The poor bag is stained now from eye shadows and nail polishes dumping themselves out in it. I don't think the glitter will come out of the seams if I wash it a billion times.

I know this. Home isn't a physical place. It's people. It's scents. It's memories all wrapped up into something. My concept of home has been forced to change. I wanted to define it as a physical space I felt comfortable and safe in. Well, when that was ripped out from under me, I had to readjust. I also know that I want to feel 'at home' again someday and that I don't feel that now. I  know that someday, I will walk into an apartment or a house or some place of residence and I will feel at home again--that may be after years of living somewhere or it could be while touring yet another apartment for the first time by myself. I don't know. But I can't wait for that moment. It's on the horizon, I'm sure of it.


And in the meantime, as it sits on the counter with my purple toothbrush sticking out the top of it, waiting for me right now, I realize tonight that I haven't unpacked my bathroom bag in almost a year.