Packing My Ex’s Things

I’ve mentioned that my father has always told my sister and me that “you don’t want a man who doesn’t want you”. Yet, for me, it was not immediately obvious that my ex didn’t want me. Oh sure, he walked out on me and said he was leaving. But a lot of his actions didn’t match those words. Let’s turn to Exhibit A - he left all his belongings in our apartment. 

On the day my ex left, he took one bag with him. One single bag. Like a weekender. He haphazardly threw some underwear, undershirts, shoes, and pants in it. But that was it. He did not pack the majority of his clothes, watches (of which he had many in a nice, shiny case), toiletries, or electronic gadgets. Why wouldn’t he take all of his things if he was so done with me? Wouldn’t he need his clothes and watches to live the fancy, new life he was creating? Wouldn’t he want to restrict my enjoyment of his electronics since he was so done with me? (I’m being facetious, of course. He isn’t that spiteful.) 

In seeing that all his items were still there, I maintained hope that he was coming back. Everyone who heard that he’d only taken one bag was sure of it. So I held on to that. I didn’t move any of his things, nor take down any photos, nor sleep on his side of the bed. I left it all, just ready and willing for his return. What’s more, he seemed to be perfectly okay with that. He didn’t ask for anything, nor tell me not to use anything. 

But then, a few weeks later, after we had our therapy session where I learned that he never intended to return, I gave up that hope. In response, I decided his things needed to go. I politely asked him to come pack and pick up his things at his earliest convenience. I even volunteered to be absent when he was there. Yet, he didn’t seem interested. He never gave a day and time that worked for him or even agreed to come and collect his things. Weeks went by where I kept asking and asking with no response. And as the weeks went by, seeing his things around my apartment only served as a painful reminder of what used to be and what was no longer. 

So I packed them myself. I asked my mother for boxes. (Because my mother still caters to me quite a bit, and I haven’t any idea where to get boxes nor what size I needed.) I took a week and went through each room of the apartment. I started in the bathroom because it would be the easiest. I packed all his toiletries and trinkets neatly in Ziploc bags and placed them in a box. I went next to the kitchen and packed all his travel accessories (which are stored in a cabinet there), electronic chargers, specialty dishware, photos, pens, and documents. Next, I went to the living room and packed his PlayStation, Xbox, games, movies, and books. Finally, I went to the bedroom and packed his clothes, shoes, watches, bags, and files. Everything was neatly arranged and labeled in boxes. 

I set them by the door and asked him to collect them when he was free. He still drug his feet. After a week of tripping over (both physically and emotionally) said boxes, I firmly told him that he either collect them or they would be placed outside on the curb. That did the trick... for the most part. He picked them up. One box at a time. For days. While that generally would have driven me crazy, I was just happy to have them gone. 

Why did I pack his things? As opposed to forcing him to, or trashing them, or burning them (Waiting to Exhale style). Well, as much as I was hurt by the end of our relationship, I wasn’t angry enough to trash all of his things. I still cared very much about him and his well-being, and I wanted him to have the comfort and enjoyment of his things. Additionally, and I didn’t know this until afterward, packing his things was a physical way for me to process that it was over. As I picked up each of his things in the apartment, I involuntarily reflected on what it was and how he used it and that I would no longer get to see him use it. When it came to things like photos, or gifts I had given him, I’d even cry. But as I placed the item in the box, I was accepting that we were moving on. And by the time I had packed everything, this idea of moving on was firmly rooted in my mind. 

My apartment seemed a little bland after the last of the boxes had been picked up. But it was just a somber reflection of the fresh start I was taking. And I was okay with that.

I think every woman ends up packing something at the end of a relationship. I pray you don’t have to pack as extensively as I did. But no matter how much packing you have to do, and no matter how much it shouldn’t be yours to do, please consider that this tangible act can have healthy healing side effects. Or, at least allows you to decide what of his you get to keep for yourself!