The Sweatshirt.

I have this sweatshirt. I bought it at the Salvation Army in 2002, while I was in college. I think it cost $3.00. I bought it to cover up my body, because I was a little bit chubby at the time and I was ashamed. It's dark heather grey, a pull-over with a hood and a pocket in the front, the kind you can put both your hands in at once. A kangaroo pocket. I called it my "fat shirt". It's big and baggy and I wore it religiously, every day, no matter the weather, because I thought no one could tell how fat I was underneath it.

Shortly after I bought it, because I thought it would be funny, I wrote "I'd rather be dead" on the front of it in very small letters with a black sharpie. It caused a huge controversy at school that led to one of my teachers calling me on a nightly basis to make sure I was alright, as well as practically mandatory counseling sessions with the school counselor. (All right, to be perfectly honest, it wasn't just the sweatshirt that caused this. It was also because when asked what I was grateful for in a class exercise one day, I said I was grateful that "suicide is always an option" but I was only trying to fuck with my classmates, whom I loathed. It worked. A little too well.)

"I'd rather be dead" has faded now so that one can hardly read it. Some time ago I ripped holes in the cuffs so I could hook my thumbs through, almost like the sweatshirts sleeves turn into little mittens at the end. Fingerless mittens. There are bleach stains all down the left sleeve, from the time Jackson caught Parvo and we had to bleach the whole house. The pocket is torn on the right side, it's ripped halfway off, but I don't care. In fact, all the seems are frayed and pulled apart. There are holes in several places too, but I barely notice them. It's my favorite sweatshirt. Still. Even though it is no longer necessary to hide underneath it, it still feels like the coziest thing in the world to pull it on. It's not even soft anymore. It's been washed so many times the inside of it is scratchy. But I don't care. I ignore that. If I was a teenager, my mother would beg me to throw it out, but I would refuse. If I was a dude, my girlfriend would beg me to throw it out, but I would refuse. I'm certain that the only reason Poompy hasn't asked me to toss it is because he has a t-shirt that is in similar condition, which he wears almost as often as I wear my sweatshirt. It's long since lost it's aesthetic appeal, but I love it still. It's just so comforting. It's like slipping on an old friend.

But I wonder.... what is it exactly that I'm holding on to? I own several other sweatshirts, all much nicer, softer, very comfy. It certainly doesn't look cool or fashionable or even cute. It looks like a fucking disaster. But I wear it anyway.

How often do we find ourselves holding on to things that we don't really need? What about relationships? How often do we stay in friendships that we don't really belong in anymore? Do I hold on to things and people that I should really let go of? Is it possible to grow out of a friendship, but fail to be aware of it? The way I've grown past this grimy old sweatshirt, but refuse to part with it? What do you do when the only thing holding you together is a hidden stash of dusty old memories?

What do you do when you suddenly realize that someone you've grown up with isn't who you thought they were? Or you realize that you are no longer who they think you are? And for the first time, you notice all the little ways they have boxed you in, refused to see you changing, refused to believe that you may not be the child you once were. All of a sudden it's glaringly clear that this person's expectations of you are so low, it's actually insulting? How do you continue in a friendship with someone who absolutely cannot see past the past?

At least I still feel comfortable and safe in the sweatshirt. In the friendship, I just feel trapped.