More things...
My early twenties is when my real adult life started. I had bought a house with an ex, pursued higher paying jobs and began enjoying the 'finer' things in life such as expensive wine and intellectual company. Once I left my ex, I had pretty much nothing. I had a few boxes of clothes, some random keepsake stuff and a mountain bike. I managed to procure a piece of shit Pontiac grand am after selling a pretty decent car to pay off a debt I owed to some family to buy the house that I no longer had attachment to. By the time I joined the military I could literally fit everything I own in the bed of my newly acquired Mazda pickup truck. No furniture, no household stuff, no junk. I gave away about three grand of tools to my friend and pretty much threw everything else away. It was a truly amazing feeling.
Throughout my handful of years in the military I began to acquire a life. I made amazing friends, had amazing experiences, and a sad byproduct of my screwed up subconscious began acquiring 'things' that I somehow felt would make my life better. Even to the point of getting out of the military and opening my restaurant, the urge to acquire wealth and 'things' became an addiction of sorts. Problem was, as if it was a drug, I could not support the lifestyle. It wasn't me. I ended up with a fairly nice car, an expensive Harley Davidson, a sailboat, toys like crazy and an anticipation that everything I had would somehow pull me through to the next level.
As I've written about before, I have been hit hard by the realization that after all was said and done I have nothing to show for what I've done. I have stories, I have remnants of experiences, I have pride knowing that I've 'been there and done that' but no one really fucking cares. I lost myself while trying to create something that I thought others wanted. I go to bed at night with no one. Though its my fault for pushing people out of my life, I wouldn't expect anyone to put up with me for the long haul when I live for others and not myself.
I'm purging myself of things that have done me no good. I hate to admit it but I've begun to re-establish levels of importance that I've put certain people on. Some people have been there for me and some people are simply full of shit. I was a friend of convenience for some people and I gave them more than I ever should have. Neither here nor there at this point.
The next phase of my life is about a life that I want to create for reasons within me, not to make other people happy. Or at least assume that it is what makes other people happy. Every time I'm able to get rid of stuff I feel a slight sensation of release from my past that has been dragging me down. Granted the skeletons fall out when I open the closet but there are fewer and fewer as the time goes on.