We’ve started to liquidate our belongings. Mostly, it’s going well. We’ve started taking pictures of some larger items and making notes about how we want to list them for sale. We’ve donated several boxes of Skipper’s toys that she no longer uses, along with several boxes of clothing, and we’re planning a garage sale to sell the remainder.
As we started putting out the word that we would be compiling a list and pictures of the motorcycles, vehicles, and other belongings that we are selling, I had the first truly emotional moment in relation to any material things. I realized that I’m going to have a very difficult time selling my motorcycle – her name is Precious. The first time I rode her was the first time I ever felt even a little comfortable on a motorcycle. I had a very silly moment and did a very poorly executed impression of Gollum: “my Precious….” And that just felt right, so that became her name.
I had less difficulty giving up my truck than I expected. The other motorcycles aren’t bothering me in the slightest – even the one that was supposed to be my eventual “upgrade” that I never even had a chance to ride. But the one I’ve been riding? That one gave me a very unexpected hitch in my step.
You see, I have some history with this specific motorcycle. It isn’t my first one, but it’s the first (and only) one that made me feel like I was right where I belonged. I’ve had pretty severe anxiety for as long as I can remember. Riding a motorcycle is definitely the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. And somehow… being on this bike is the only place I’ve ever felt truly free from anxiety. I suspect it’s in part because riding requires a level of focus that nothing else does – if you aren’t locked in, you’re risking your life. And that leaves no room for anxiety to creep in.
Giving up Precious feels like giving up that freedom. I know I have the potential to find that freedom elsewhere, but it doesn’t change the emotional mess it leaves in my heart.
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