Baggage...

I supposed most of us start collecting our proverbial luggage somewhere in our teens.

Self esteem issues go in the carry on.
Insecurities? Front pocket with the double zipper for expansion.
Bad relationships? Main compartment, preferably with the plastic insert incase of spills.

By the time I reached my mid twenties I had a full set of hodgepodge mismatched luggage that I carried around, plus the diaper bag for the two toddlers I had in tow. Truth is, I had more than my share of emotional baggage. Way more.

Over the years I have unpacked some, given some away, and repacked.  By the time I had reached thirty five I upgraded to matching emotional baggage so while I was still carrying it around, I at least looked like I had it all together. Which of course, I didn't.

And like most, I have to carry this baggage everywhere, weighing me down. Truth is, I've carried this emotional baggage so long, most days I don't even know I have it until I get stuck in the doorway. Like three years ago when I was called for jury duty.

We have several court houses, and I always get called for the furthest away.  It's hard to get to, in a super sketchy area, with one way roads and loop de-loops that confuse the heck out of me, and to top it off,  you have to pay for parking.  I know because my ex dragged me into that particular courtroom twice a month for years.  Years folks. YEARS. Now, for those who don't remember, my ex-husband has been dead now for nearly 9 years. One would think I'd have unpacked that baggage long ago, burned the contents, and sent it off to sea.  But alas, on that day of Jury Service, I sat in the parking lot emerged in a full on panic attack over just the thought of going into the building.  I eventually worked my way through it, walked in, and realized I needed to be in the building across the street, which while a welcome distraction, still left me scrambled, attempting to pick up all the contents of my emotional mess, resembling the busted open bag on the airline turn style sloppily held together with security tape, grannie panties hanging out for the world to see.

That was three years ago and yet, when I got the notice to serve in the mail it all came right back to me. With a bit of embarrassment, I called and had it switched to a more local courthouse.  I was actually looking forward to my day in court. He's been gone for nearly nine years and we'd only been in this courthouse a handful of times.  Clearly I had moved past it all, unpacked that bag and left it unattended in some random lobby, right? Nope.  I found myself catching my breath as I just passed by the probate door. My chest was heavy, but I pushed through, waiting it out in the jury pool, making small talk with a kindergarten teacher seated next to me. This would be fine, right?  I could do this.

They called us up to the superior court room and informed us that it was a criminal case, expected to last 5 days or so, involving domestic violence. Which was fine, I could be impartial, right? It wasn't until the judge called me to side bar when it happened.

The zipper on the emotional bag I carry let go and my whole past spilled out all over the podium.  I had to be asked several times to speak loud enough so the mic, not 12 inches in front of me, could pick up what I was saying. The judge asked about my restraining order, and  I unraveled.  At the mention of my kids being kidnapped for a time by him I heard the DA audibly catch her breath. I also noted that just to serve jury duty I had to switch court houses. Inevitably, the question had to be asked, "Do you think, that despite the abuse by your ex-husband after your divorce, you can be impartial in this case?"

And in that moment, I honestly didn't know. I really wanted to be, but I can't guarantee my emotional baggage wouldn't explode on the turn style for all the world to see.

I was excused by the judge immediately.  No side bar, no wait over there, no additional questions. And while some would see this as a win, I felt pathetic. Like I had somewhat failed the system, like I had failed myself.  It was only after I was home and had thrown myself into a right brained project (finishing up a communion gown for a 9 year old) that I was finally able to let go of the tightness in my chest. It makes me mad though that I can't seem to unpack this part of my life. I want to serve as a juror, to do my part.  I love the process of our justice system despite the fact that it failed me so, so many times in the past. And yet, the sight of the stand, officialness of the officers, the smell of the wood, triggers me right back to those days.

My past is part of what makes me, me. I accept this, embrace it (mostly), and draw strength from it when I need it most. But I can't help but wonder what I'm missing out on by carrying this particular piece of luggage around.  Because I have to tell you, it's exhausting being subject to an unexpected surcharge.