I just got back from a week in Atlanta playing with my
four year old grandson. Traveling is rough on a purse, jammed with everything
one might need while stranded on a tarmac. In a half-crazed mode, the easiest
way to clear the deck was to dump out my purse on the bed. My grandmother was
famous for such episodes. She could lose her purse in the middle of the night
and she could decide to clean out her bag at midnight. Today is National
Handbag Day and National Mental Health Day. I think the two go hand in hand.
One Band Aid. $15.62. Galaxy
phone. Receipt from Raising Cane Chicken at 8:45 p.m. after the express snack service
between ATL and LIT. Blue peepers. Extra pair of Peepers Readers. My EpiPen
Auto Injector 0.3 mg stored in an extra Peeper Holder for my wasp allergy and a
Sting Kill Pack – external anesthetic.
A good bag and good shoes. A mantra in my house
growing up. Of course, my Daddy worked in Department Stores all of my life. I
don’t remember my first purse but I now own thirty-five handbags, wrapped in
tissue and tucked in dresser drawers or drawn up in cloth bags filling two
laundry baskets in the closet. This is a curated collection of many years.
KN95 Mask. Grocery receipt
for 37.10. Purell Hand Sanitizer. Chanel Rouge Coco 468 Michele.
Clutches. Evening bags. Saddlebags. Fabric bags. Mesh
bags. Handbags. Crossbody bags. Shoulder bags. Large totes. Zippered bags.
Magnetic closure or Toggle Bags.
Three have key fobs. I have red tassels and black
tassels and brass hang tags. Bags with feet. Silver chains and brass chains.
Black bags. Black patent. Orange patent. Red. Turquoise.
Tiffany Blue. Sea Mist Grey. Variation of blue and grey shimmer. Jade green.
Gunmetal. Off White Quilted. Color blocked red and black and another red, navy
and tan. A straw bag. Embossed bags. A hot pink bag studded with LOVE I carry to
weddings and cool occasions.
Coach. Brahmin. Michael Kors. Anne Klein. Liz Claiborne.
Brighton. Cole Hahn. To name a few. Many
of my bags were purchased 30-40% off. My most expensive bag, a Black Patent Coach
was on sale and my least purchase was a red glitter bag from Walmart for
Halloween.
My oldest purse belonged to my grandmother. A maroon
clutch Alligator bag lined in suede with a suede coin purse inside. My newest
bag I bought during the Pandemic when I just had to go to the store for new
sheets. Look what else came home, my brown Embossed Crossbody bag I love.
I have memory bags. A large Cole Hahn Black Tapestry shoulder
bag with outer leather and brass accents and brass studded tassels. I have
traveled everywhere with that mammoth bag stuffed with a water bottle and Sudoku
book. It is the last bag I bought that I could share with my Daddy. He was in
the hospital and I walked in fresh from Dillard’s with this sharp bag thrown
over my shoulder and he said “Oh you shouldn’t have!” And I brought it closer
and he began to admire the design and quality while still exclaiming “You
really shouldn’t have.” But he was a lost cause at that point, Mr. Quality over
Quantity. This bag is thirteen years old and gets a treatment with a black Sharpie
every fall. I just can’t part with it, yet.
A Sea Bag Maine. Reclaimed sailing canvas printed with
regional nautical maps and rope handles. I was visiting my cousin, Dede, who
lived in Maine, when she had to go back into the hospital. Her bone marrow
transplant was failing but we didn’t know that, then. I came in the last
morning before I left and she was pleased as punch with a beautifully wrapped sack
with a Sea Bag tucked in. Dede took a
pen and put a dot on the map right at Southport Island. The last sweet moments
I would have with my dear cousin. Just a purse.
A wedding photo of two young people running through a
shower of rice and love and wishes. There I am, taupe clutch in hand. Just like
the Queen.
A Uni Ball Vision Elite
Black Pen. A sea glass leather wallet with my Driver’s license, Starbucks card,
two credit cards, ATM, insurance, Covid Vaccine Card, $15. Red pill case with
Tylenol, Imodium, Benadryl for the wasp sting and clonazepam. The things we
carry.
***
Four hundred suitcases were found buried in the attic
of the former Willard State Hospital in New York in 1995. Shut up, put away. Patients
living lifetimes in the institution. A multitude of belongings marking what was
never needed again, tucked in the eaves of a one hundred twenty-six year old
“asylum for the insane.”
This discovery told a story which had not been told
before. As a result, a small portion of the forgotten suitcases were turned
into a traveling exhibit, The Lives They Left Behind: Suitcases from a State
Hospital Attic which debuted at SAMSHA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health
Services Administration) in September 2006. I was able to see the exhibit as
part of a conference I attended.
Nine suitcases each with a story to tell – a handful
to speak for the years and the thousands abandoned. A toothbrush. An alligator wallet. Sewing patterns. Fine china.
A Bible. A ration card. Letters.
Postcards. Baby booties. Textbooks. Fine clothing. Hundreds of items telling
the stories. Things for now and things for later. I connected with these lives,
saddened for them but relieved for myself.
I carry my mental illness with me every day. I did not
choose this little gem. It will probably never wear out. No one else wants it. Some
days, it is heavier than others. The fear of the unknown. The whys and what
ifs. Frustrating impairments. Undone everything. The stigma turning away
would-be friends. Regrets of unmade memories and memories soured. Incomplete.
For my journey, I pack what I need. Resiliency to jump
back from setbacks. Buoyancy for whatever comes my way. Hope, without hope,
everything looks lost even when it’s not. I need my stubborn streak. Self-determination
is not hard for me. When I decide to do something, don’t get in my way.
I carry strength to achieve my goal. I carry the
strength of people who love me anyway. The power of words hidden in my heart. I
pack being present. Not looking back. Trying not to obsess on forward. Knowing
my own presence and sensing when my body and mind need rest.
I have travelled with a story for many years. The only
value this little gem has given me is a story to share with other people. Otherwise,
the disease wins. Stigma wins. I fight back with good doctors, therapists, consistent
medication, support and faith. Recovery. Living my best life possible. What to
produce from the ups and downs. How to respect an imperfect life.
And if it helps, a good bag on my arm.
"Gunter, Where's My Purse?" Randomonium June 1, 2022
