Throughout the years, I’ve let go of a lot of things: teddy bears, blankets, clothes, cars, friends and boyfriends. Some I did with resoluteness and strength; others I let go of accidentally, almost as if I weren’t paying attention, and they wandered away. When I think of them, it’s like they’re lost, floating out there in the wind with the potential that someday, this thing, whatever it be, might reappear.
Many things in our lives are functional things, like toothbrushes or phones. Hygiene and personal relationships require us to maintain close connections to these things. If I lost my toothbrush, it wouldn’t be long (maybe a few days or so) before I noticed it was missing. It serves a constant purpose. Other things serve a purpose, but of a less material nature, like relationships and celebrations. They provide emotional and psychological fulfillment. However, sometimes we are unable to fulfill our emotional needs with substantial things, and substitute material possessions to fill the space. Such was the case with my Care Bear.
As a child, I never played with stuffed animals, except to appease the countless relatives who purchased them for my birthdays, and I certainly never slept with one. However, I noticed other kids seemingly fulfilled with a fuzzy friend to hold onto, and that image stayed with me.
In high school I felt an unfulfilled need for comfort. Hoping to fill that need, I rummaged through my mound of stuffed animals piled on the floor and discovered my Care Bear. He had been an accent on my bed for years, but had never been put to any use, so I decided he would sleep with me and be my comfort.
Each night I curled up with the pink bear, and after some time I became intensely attached. When I left for college in Florida, I took him with me. When I moved to Colorado and then back home to Maine, he came too. The bear fulfilled an emotional need.
One day, I realized the Bear was no longer around. Unlike my decision to find the bear, the decision to let him go hadn’t been a conscious one. I didn’t even notice he was gone because I inadvertently replaced him with something else. I was in love and that love filled up the space the bear had occupied. That romance became my primary source of comfort and I had that to hold onto. It wasn’t until that romance disappeared and that space needed to be filled again that I began wondering what had become of the bear and wishing for his return, hoping he wasn’t lost for good.
Sometimes I still curl up at night thinking of the bear, wishing I could wrap my arms around him for comfort and something to hold onto, but I know his absence will be forgotten once I find something to fill that space. So, I pull the blankets up around my chin and close one hand around the other before drifting off to sleep.
Christy McKinnon can be contacted at [email protected].