Today I went down into my mother’s garage, and carried two heavy boxes back to my house that were filled with memorabilia. The first box had some artwork, and many papers and writings from early elementary school through high school. I found a much coveted story of mine, that I had written in eighth grade, and have wanted to pull from an old hard drive of a Mac II that is in a box in my bedroom. It was not typed, but hand written. The head of the high school read this story, Mivel’s Ravine, at my eighth grade graduation. There was also my piano music from elementary school (I started lessons at four years old and was quite good), and there were projects, report cards, and my childhood passports filled with stamps from all over the world. I reviewed a couple of my reports, some over and beyond, and some falling a bit short. I felt a little melancholy looking at all of these papers. 

The second box was filled with yearbooks and photo albums. Some of the photos were nostalgic; my trip living and going to school at Denston College, England, in seventh grade, and a father-daughter dance my freshman year. There was also a box full of letters and cards, including letters from my first boyfriend in high school sent to me while I was working at camp. This second box did not take too long to look through, and I found myself having more emotions triggered; sadness and grief. To see photos of myself, from early childhood, the elementary years, and my early teens, brought out feelings of reminiscing about all of the hopes that I had had for myself. I was smart, cute, and talented. There could be joy, as I was very happy in my youth, but the feeling was primarily sadness. As the clouds are clearing as I am listening to music and writing these words, I am now brought back to the present. So much has happened since these early years. I met Steve when I was seventeen, and we got together and married when I was nineteen. Two decades proceeded to happen; more schooling, many houses, many jobs, travel, camping, lovemaking, mental breakdowns, and friends having come and gone. So really, there is a lot of my past and my life that is not represented in these two boxes that have surfaced.

I am grateful for my early life. Two things that I really noticed, was that I am notorious for starting journals, filled with both words and art, but not filling the majority of the pages. I found that some of my school work was above and beyond, A-plus work, and then some of it seemed as if I wasn’t even trying. I think part of what makes me sad, is that there was more going on with me than really comes through in these pictures. My cuteness and my smartness may dominate the scene, but the letter from my boyfriend, (the relationship did not end well), my middle school year books from the years I was bullied, or my artwork from high school when I was dealing with depression and general ambiguity, all slips through, and I find myself on the doorstep of where my issues today are sourced. I see the beginning of all of the hardship, or the turning point at which things went wrong. The photo of the boy in third grade that bullied me in seventh grade, happy photos of me with my childhood friend that I lost because I did not stand up to the bullies in her favor, the twisted play written in early cursive about a girl that dies of a drug overdose. I realize there is the impeccable Geography report, Science fiction story, and beautiful photo from my Freshman year. In that photo, my smile is so sweet, my clothes familiar, yet underneath I was struggling with anorexia-bulimia. The letter from my boyfriend displays how much he cared, but does not show how he often left me behind for more popular friends.

One friend said I should burn the boxes, if not today, than this time next year. But I will not do that, because the good does outweigh the bad. We may not know it when we are children, and it takes a rich life to learn, but the texture of our lives is filled with darkness and strewn with struggle. Still, I have to wonder about this sadness that I feel for this younger me. I must be aware of something deeper that is not being shown in the comments of my many yearbooks, and the photos of me in adorable outfits and cute shoes, amongst friends in elementary school with whom I know the feelings were good and the experiences rich. So I will place the lids back on the boxes once again, and continue on with being forty. I am still cute in a way, and I am still intelligent. But the sadness is valued information, and even though I choose to not wallow in it, nor make too big of a deal out of it, I also wish to explore the life of early Emily, traveling in time to a place where so much happiness occurred and there was no need for hope, for the future was simply solid gold.