The Duffel Bag, Nin G. Ravencroft

The Duffel Bag

by Nin G. Ravencroft

When I was young, I kept a duffel bag in my closet. I used that duffel bag whenever my pesky emotions grew too heavy. I struggled with feeling envious of my two sisters, who always seemed to be so much funnier than me, so much smarter, so much prettier, or so much more beloved by my mother. Although deep down I knew my family loved me, there was a feeling of disconnect. I sometimes felt like I didn’t belong in my family. I felt like I was unwanted and unloved, and, if I were to disappear, the rest of the family would be happy to see me go. That was where the duffel bag came in. I would go upstairs to my bedroom, throw clothes into the bag, and make plans to run away from home. My neighbors the Gowens liked me, and I loved their daughter Katie like she was my own sister. They would take me in, wouldn’t they? What about my dear friend Joelle across the street? Surely she would accept me. I could find a new family I fit in with more.

That was the thought process, but it never got that far. My mother, loving and patient, would always find me before I had even left the room. She would talk to me while I sobbed over my duffel bag and assure me I still belonged. She reminded me I was still loved. I didn’t need to run away; I didn’t need the duffel bag. I already had a home, and I had no need to leave it. Over time, I lost the duffel bag. I can’t remember what happened to it. Physically, it is gone; mentally, I have carried that duffel bag for twenty-two long years. It is no longer a physical bag. It is no longer a container for clothes, a makeshift suitcase that barely had enough room for one day’s worth of supplies. It is not even always connected to my desire to run away from home—at least not in a literal sense. It carries emotions, now. It carries feelings I’m too ashamed to admit. It carries guilt I attribute to myself instead of my friends, because I can’t bear the idea that sometimes people I love and feel safe with can make mistakes. It carries the envy that resurfaces every so often, the depression I have tricked myself into thinking is now entirely dealt with, and the anger I refuse to let show even in little ways. It’s a desire to run away from a truly safe space. That duffel bag is an out, a way I can escape having to face my own emotions within a place I can call “home.” It’s an attempt to stop others from having to deal with my issues, even my issues with them. If I keep the duffel bag zipped, I can maintain that environment of pleasantness by confining those negative feelings to internal expression. I can run away from vulnerability and from having to admit I’m

not perfect. In its own way, the duffel bag is still my tool for running away from home. Over the years, the duffel bag has gotten so heavy I can no longer take a step. It weighs me down, making it impossible to escape the quicksand of depression and keeping me from proceeding more than one baby step at a time. It carries whispers of phrases I now consider friends: “You’re not good enough. Everyone will hate you if they know. You can’t say no. You have to be the good friend. You have to be ‘the nice one.’”

I am tired. I am tired spiritually, emotionally, and physically. I pull the duffel bag off my shoulder. There are scars there, now, rashes and reddened scratches in the skin from where the weight of the duffel bag has been digging into my shoulder all these years. My back and knees are aching from trying to carry burdens that were never mine to carry. I unzip the duffel bag. One by one, I begin to remove the burdens. Here is my grief over a lost friend from years ago. I used to ask whether I could have saved him, but now I understand he was too far gone to want saving. I play our song in my mind. It feels lighter now. Here I place resentment towards a former friend whom I now realize was an abuser. I think back on the good memories we had together and the fun I had in homes his memory tainted. They were good homes; I wish I could go back to them. They, too, can be removed from the duffel bag. It’s okay to let go of things that made you happy. Out comes my festering envy towards my online friends, all of whom seem to have personal projects they devote their time to. I have no such project, but I do have friends. I think it’s natural for friends to be envious of each other every once in a while; the important part is we still celebrate each other’s accomplishments all the same. I am proud of my friends. Envious but proud. I remove all the difficulties with dating and relationships I’ve faced over the years. They all seem to be coming to a head now. For many years, I convinced myself I’m not good enough to date. I’m too emotional, too self-conscious, too paranoid. Unloading the bag makes this burden feel lighter. Maybe I am ready, but only under God’s guidance. There’s someone I think I have romantic feelings for. I take those feelings out and tuck them in my pocket to hand over later. Along with this tangle of romance is some discomfort. I work to untangle it from the other emotions. It is more delicate than the rest, and yet more liable to cause harm.

I wonder who is ultimately hurting more when I continue to carry it around. I wonder if it will cause worse pain if I ignore it. There is a wound on my hand when I remove it from the duffel bag. One of my best friends has left similar wounds before. I never wanted to tell him, because it felt like admitting I was too sensitive for criticism. I decide to tell him about the wound, since I know he’ll patch it up. That’s the good thing about best friends. There are chains in the duffel bag, attached to books and pencils and the keys of a computer. I place them next to the other loads. I always loved writing. It was fun, it gave me an escape and a sense of joy. Did I stifle myself by making my expectations too grand? Maybe it’s okay for writing to just be a hobby. I don’t need these chains. I remove a wad of guilt from the bag. It’s emblazoned with the Twitter emblem and it comes with voices asking me for more money and more attention and more retweets and more effort. I have none left to give, and I fear the cries for help flooding into my direct messages are actually the snickers of a ring of scam artists as they watch me take the bait every time. Unfounded, perhaps, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I think I should learn how to say no. Finally, I pull out the heaviest burden of all. It pops and crackles as if alive, and I remove the collar and leash I had kept on it so I could call it back when it got too far on its brief outings. My resentment towards my family is free to go find a new home somewhere that isn’t mine. I love my family, but they don’t understand how I work. They put too much pressure on me whether they mean to or not. Because they’re the most important people in my life, I hold myself to higher standards around them. They’re convinced they know best about how I should handle my other burdens. I don’t think they know this in itself added another burden. There is one load I do not remove from the bag. A spiritual hunger lingers in the corner, as if afraid I’ll toss it out too. I feed it with scraps of advice from chapel services and spiritual mentors. It can stay, a reminder of my desire and my need to walk in constant pursuit of God. He has a home for me, and I long to find it. The bag feels lighter now. This time, it is my Father, not my mother, who leads me by the hand back to where I am safe and loved. He knows where I need to be. It’s time to go back home.