“That’s enough baggage for three people,” he said as he stared at the pile of duffle bags, suitcases, purses, and crinkled food store plastic sacks. “Consider donating some of that stuff.”

“I’m throwing it away. No one needs it,” I said. “Including me.”

He had come with promises to help, but couldn’t seem to get his hands dirty with the refuse of my world. He exhaled. With care, he said, “This is your whole life. All your things.”

“Yup,” I said, shoving fake flowers and candles into a black trash bag. I added sconces and a half-dead cactus.

“You agree so easily. These are parts of you. Who you are.”

I reached for the ice cream maker and added it to an overflowing suitcase. “Are these things really me?” I asked. “These are not me. And they are not things I would choose. Or need. These are things I accepted. Every bit of this crap is an act. I’m done with that story. It all has to go.” I returned my attention to a pile of DVDs. “It’s all part of the lie.”

He frowned. “That’s harsh.” When I didn’t react, he added, “Your whole life is not a lie.”

I continued to shove random items into the nearest bag. I added an ugly sweater, a stick of lavendar deodorant, a glass vase, two unmatched cereal bowls, and eyeglasses appropriate for my eyes twenty years ago. I replied, “It’s all going to the dumpster.”

He wandered through the sack maze, briefly poking around an open duffle. The room, recently the kitchen, was unrecognizable as a place to cook or dine. I’m sure it reminded him of a swap meet or charity bazaar — items and bags strewn wall to wall. A bra on a chair. Bottles of wine and bourbon. A designer coffee maker. Boxes of cigarettes and a vape pen. Canned good under bags of rice and boxes of pasta. Lenox dinnerware and a ceramic tea set. A spiral pile of cookbooks. The mound of cleaning supplies with dishsoap dripping from a squirt-top. Framed photos leaned against the wall.

The mess of a life.

I said, “This stuff is easy to recognize as garbage. Each weighs me down.”

“I see,” he said. “But you’re tossing all of it?”

I raised my head and drew his gaze. His ice-blue eyes met mine. With all the courage I could draw, I muttered another, “Yup.”

He flipped open the cover of the nearest book. “These are all diet and nutrition books. Don’t you need these?”

“Nope.” I rose from kneeling and marched towards the bathroom. With no hesitation, I swept bottles into a plastic bag.

He followed me and stood in the doorway. “All the meds, too.”

“And the vitamins. And the diet pills.” I paused, pulling a box of makeup from an open drawer. “And all the trappings of farce.” I dumped the box of colors which filled another bag.

He raised his eyebrows. “That’s a lot of stuff.”

“It all has to go.” I removed conditioners and balms, soaps and scrubs, masques and oils, moisturizers and wrinkle erasers and perfumes from another drawer. Into another bag the collection went, the bottles tinkling in protest.

He listened to the tinkling and shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Tossing everything.”

“I said I was and I am.” I moved past him into the bedroom. On the far wall, photos of family and friends lined several heavy oak shelves. “That’s next,” I said, gesturing to the wall of nostalgia. I continued through the room into my office.

More oak shelves filled with tome after tome lined the walls around the compact desk. On the floor were exactly sixteen thick cardboard boxes. With precision, I loaded the books into the boxes, filling each to the brim. I taped the boxes closed. He regarded my actions without comment for those minutes. On my desk, I had placed seven books and one binder.

“Is that the pile you are keeping?” he asked.

Without the interest to respond, I opened the office closet door and retrieved a lectern. I placed it into a large box reserved for that purpose. “This is certainly going to the dump.” I wiped my hands on my jeans.

“You will not teach anymore?” he asked. “That’s a crime.”

“I thought you’d say it was a sin. It’s neither sin nor crime. It’s sweet freedom. I’m done teaching the same way, to the same people.” I added binders filled with lecture notes to the lectern garbage bin. “I’m done with the game. I’m done being who they demand me to be.”

He said, “I understand what you are doing. And I certainly understand your motivation. But it still scares me.”

I considered his brutal honesty. I said, “Set your fear aside. I’m determined to do this.”

I listened as he wandered the rooms. The kitchen, all the lies I gave to my body. The bathroom, all that decorated my facade, perpetuating the public performance. The bedroom, all that provided false sanctuary. The living room, all that I pretended entertained me. The office, all the laurels and presentations to elicit applause.

Moving past him as he considered my actions, I returned to the bedroom. With only a slight hesitation when I recognized the guilt and loss that ripped through my chest, I gathered the framed pictures from their shelves and tossed them into a beach bag. “So much pretence,” I said as I tied the bag closed.

“Those were your wedding photos. Family moments. Vacation photos.” He shook his head. “It’s sad.”

I stood and stretched backwards to loosen the trauma from my spine. “It’s truth. I feel alive.”

While he watched, I covered the length and breath of the rooms. I dumped my jewelry box and its contents. I added my framed diplomas, certifications, awards, and licenses to the same black garbage bag. Into a second bag, I tossed negligees and thigh-high stockings, push-up bras and body compression underwear, thongs, hair dye, high heels, and perfume. To that same bag, I added my computer — noticing the social media disappear from the screen as I denied the machine power. Another bag I filled with pamphlets and political books, newspapers, and magazines. I sifted through a Rolodex and tossed eighty percent into the depths of a last bag.

With a glance of satisfaction, I sipped water from a tall glass. I took several deep breaths before I approached the small closet at the end of the long hallway. With trepidation, I turned the knob and listened to the heavy door creak open. With a flathead screwdriver, I attacked the hinges. Each fell with their respective fasteners to the wooden floor.

“You’re tossing the door? Why the door?” he asked.

I removed the door and leaned it against the wall. “Look closely,” I said.

He leaned towards it and saw to what I referred. The door was not the wood it appeared to be, but a composite of moments when my pure self was rejected. Still photos. Moving clips. A collage of pain. Teachers and bosses telling me I was incapable. Disapproving parents. Too tall, too short, too thin, too fat. Talentless writer. Neglectful parent. Disappointing daughter. Worthless wife. Disloyal friend. Lazy employee. Paramours leaving and lying. Too smart. Not smart enough. Qualified. Over-qualified. Underqualified. Too this. Not enough that. Words including can’t, shouldn’t, unworthy, brutal, bitch, cruel, covered the surface. Judgment and negation. Mere words.

“And inside? Behind that door?” he asked, gesturing to the interior of the now-exposed closet.

“Tools of the trade,” I said, removing the first of the items within. Several sets of puppet strings. Theatre makeup, including greasepaint and clown smile. A straight-hair wig. Three bobbleheads to mimic. Two black suits. A briefcase. Six journals containing persuasive strategies. Carefully drafted appropriate responses and defendable positions. And a box of plastic masks.

He nodded. “I see. The things you used to perform the way they demanded.”

“Yes.” I shoved the items into another bag. It filled quickly.

“Protecting yourself from judgment. From rejection.”

I turned from him to a table in the room’s corner. To it, I added one item: a yellow yoga mat. Among it, certain things representing my truth remained. The seven books I had written. A binder of published articles. Framed photos of my children, my grandmother, and my brother. A keepsake book with remembrances and photos of five genuine friends who would become the seeds of my new tribe. My cameras and lenses. Pads of paper and my favorite ink pens. A pile of literature and one cookbook. Hair ties for my long curls. Favorite jewelry consisting of pieces I had selected or inherited from my grandmother. A painting from a favorite artist leaned against the table alongside my own framed photography. An Italian language course. The DVDs I treasured, including Lord of the Rings and Lost, were in a pile at my feet, along with a few pairs of boots and one pair of ASICS running shoes.

“The refuse company is on its way. They’ll just toss it. Burn it,” I said with a long exhale. “This small collection of things can never be discarded. Even if I burned them, they would reappear.”

With a caress to the cover of the novel I had painfully penned, he asked, “So now what?”

I regarded him and his furled black wings. My guardian angel, tall and broad, blinding light radiating around him, always present, always watching. His long black hair flopped over his expressive, almond eyes.

I said, “Now what? Now I ask why you communicated. Today. Why have you been silent all these years? Witnessing me pretend? Seeing me live inauthentically and you said nothing.” I blinked away the tears that filled my eyes. “And you walk around the stage of my life and chastise me as if this destruction is in error. Judging me.”

His lips pressed tight into a thin smirk. His eyes narrowed. He said, “I appear to you now to ensure you go through with it. And that you keep what’s true. Like me. I certainly don’t want to be in a bin at some refuse station.” He smiled then.

I returned his smile and said, “Frankly, I don’t care what you think.”

As his vissage faded he whispered, “Good.”