The Brown Bag

I have a new brown handbag. It came from money my husband gave me on top of what he usually does. Extra, he said. For compensation of my feelings.

What a privilege.

I didn’t ask for it. That part matters to me. I felt happy receiving it. Grateful too. The bag makes me feel different. I notice this without knowing what to do with the knowledge.

It’s strange to admit what material things can do to your feelings. I remember reading somewhere, I can’t remember where, that the things we buy reflect the voids we carry inside us. I don’t know if that’s true.

If this bag reflects anything, maybe it’s just a phase. I’ve had many phases in my life. Periods of hyperfixation that arrive, stay for a while, then loosen their grip.

Still, the bag reminds me of another one.

In high school, I was very attached to my backpack. I carried it everywhere, even when there were no books inside. I slept with it beside me.

If I try to describe that time now, the words come out like this:
not belonging,
lonely but wanting to be alone,
feeling like a strange kid among too many people.

The bag felt like something I could hold on to. Something that stayed with me.

If I could speak to my fifteen-year-old self, I would say:
you’re not weird.
you’re doing okay.
nobody was really talking about you.
thank you for surviving.
thank you for staying.

Later in life, friends have told me I seem cool, calm, grounded. I find that funny. They don’t know how busy my head can be.

This morning, I brought the brown bag to the office. It carried my things. It sat beside my chair. It made me look a little more like a corporate worker. Less like a schoolgirl with a TikTok backpack.

I’m grateful for it.
That’s all.