I do magnets

I had been packing up my belongings for days; the movers would arrive before the week was over. It had been weeks since I had a meaningful conversation with any human being. I spent my days alone, separating our belongings and putting what felt like “mine” in cardboard boxes. I spent my nights alone in our master bedroom. It was my ultimate low.

By the time I started pulling my items from our kitchen shelves, we had run out of gallon-sized plastic bags. This made packing up the dozens of magnets on the fridge terribly difficult. We had a few tiny bags, and — though the seals wouldn’t close — I made it work. The magnets didn’t feel like “mine,” but this hobby had started out as mine. I can’t remember which magnet I bought first, but I’m sure we were together. The amusement park? The museum? I fondly remember the magnet with the goo-green liquid and the floating panda. The magnets didn’t feel like just “mine,” but I didn’t want to leave them.

The movers came and collected my boxes the day before I was set to leave our apartment. After weeks of not speaking, you came into the master bedroom and asked me to stay just a few more days. I didn’t. My heart was broken.

I drove 600 miles away and hit restart on life (but, perhaps “restart” is too generous, as I had never been on my own alone… ever). I unpacked our belongings that had felt more like “mine” at the time, but didn’t feel like “mine” now.

After searching every box, I discovered that I had forgotten the magnets.

No one really tells you everything you really lose in a divorce. You lose friends. You lose trust. You lose a second family. What do you do when his grandfather, whom you loved, dies? When his sisters fall in love, get married, and you have to watch from the outside? What do you do with all the inside jokes that are stuck in your head? When you hear your favorite songs? What do you do when all of your hobbies remind you of your failed relationship? I didn’t feel like myself anymore.

I stopped collecting magnets, and I was overly cautious of starting similar hobbies. I’m not really the shot glass type, and postcards didn’t do it for me either. I continued to travel, but without any souvenirs.

The years passed. Still plenty of tears, but less now. I visited a friend in Seattle, and we took a day trip down to Portland. After a couple of beers in a quiet spot on a quiet street, we visited the largest bookstore in the world. We purchased matching poetry books with the intent of gifting them to one another with a thoughtful message scrolled inside. Near the checkout counter, I saw them: the magnets.

“I used to collect magnets,” I whispered, my brain hazy with memories. I explained to my friend my painful history with magnets, and she insisted that she buy me a souvenir magnet with “Portland” printed across it. I had a pit in my stomach.

I put the magnet up on my fridge when I returned home, but it didn’t feel right. I mostly ignored it. When I did notice it, I stared at it wearily. I wasn’t ready and I didn’t know how to handle it and it just didn’t feel like “mine.” It stayed on my fridge for years, and that was it. I wasn’t sure if I did magnets anymore.

Not knowing how to be alone was a daily problem for me. If you live your life constantly defining yourself by what other people think of you, what do you do when no one is there? Who am I without being able to see my reflection in him? It was a dangerous, unhealthy way to live, but it was all I had ever known. I felt constantly unsure of myself, unsure of who I was, and unsure of everything around me.

It took nearly four years. I had been on dozens of adventures on my own, but, strangely, it was a music festival in Texas where something finally changed. A beer-shaped magnet with “DALLAS” in big letters caught my eye in the airport. The golden liquid inside the beer mug reminded me of the goo-green liquid from the magnet with the floating panda that I had left behind years ago. I bought it and put it on my fridge.

Then came the art exhibit in Atlanta. After that, the redwood trees on the coast. Chicago, Nashville, and New Orleans were added. A distillery and a curvy street full of flowers. These were all adventures that felt like mine. Collecting magnets felt like mine again. I started to take shape.

I grew to love myself and to feel gratitude on a new level. I learned to set boundaries and to see myself without needing someone else’s eyes. I learned that I am valuable and worthy of love, regardless of how successful I am or how productive I am or how many mistakes I’ve made. I am worthy of love as I exist now, without needing to change something for someone else. Looking back, I can see how sad and hurt we both were by things that had happened long before we had ever met. I know that we were doing the best we could at that time. I forgave you, and I forgave myself.

I had just spent a long weekend at the beach when I entered the third souvenir shop of the day. Its front doors faced the ocean. As a now-established magnet collector, I had developed quite the palate. I liked magnets with unique shapes and bold colors. It had to depict a specific element I had enjoyed from my trip. And, most importantly, it had to make me happy.

I settled on a silver sand dollar. I hadn’t done much shell collecting this specific trip, but it reminded me of the ocean at night. I had spent several nights sitting on the sand under the moon. As I approached the register, the shop worker told me about specials they were running on t-shirts and hats. I shook my head softly and smiled.

“No thanks — I do magnets.”