A Woman About A Couch

I shouldn’t be this upset about a couch.
Rationally, I am quite aware that I am being irrational. If I had the Stepford-prescribed dosage of rationale at this moment, I would be much more perturbed by the crazy drunk man on my couch, face half-covered in an askew ski mask chanting at me in the dark ‘Come back and sit on my face’….one time, two times, three times, four times….quite enough of that cut short with a definitive, ‘Ew, no’. Thank you Clueless for lessons in my formative years in dealing with creeps.
My couch has been put out to pasture in the mean streets of West Hollywood through promises that Athens Services ™ would relieve me of my tired old Bessie and I could imagine her to be the new favored resting spot of a delightful junkyard bloodhound named ‘Old Blue’. But Athens didn’t pick my Bessie up. And now she sits neglected, humiliated, and devoid of the gravitas she carried in my life. Now home to a few leftover parmesan cheese packets, assorted urine, and this asshole.
The part of me that advocates for women shouts that I should be mad that it has become so commonplace to hear these lewd phrases in passing and not blink twice at it. The part of me that advocates for human rights whispers that I should be glad that this troubled soul has found a soft and comfortable place to rest his head for the night. The bigger, resounding part of me that is me, is feeling the guilt and sadness and madness over this thing that carried so many wonderful, big, beautiful moments being defiled.
Maybe it’s crazy to think that way. Maybe it was reading The Velveteen Rabbit too many times to where it got indoctrinated into my subconscious. Whatever way it is, I believe that these things that we treasure…places, objects, pets, people…we put so much into them, and if we are lucky, they take a part of us with them. Our spirit and their spirit are intertwined and that is a gift. One we should honor. Let go when it is time to go, but honor what each thing, place, creature, or person has brought to our lives before we say goodbye. It’s painful to see something that has given so much to me and taken so much of me with it over the past 11 years be pissed on.
Blah blah blah.
I know I should most likely acknowledge at this moment that this attachment is in part probably a metaphor for the changes I’m undergoing in my life, moving from one stage to the next and feeling the guilt of potential under-appreciation for where I've come from and the need to honor it all as I move on to some place that I feel so good about...and in a small voice wonder if a person who lets their couch become trash deserves that. Then again, I think it's natural, it's necessary, it's human, and it's ok. I could go more into that, but I won’t right now. I don’t think I need to because what I really want to say may be as simple as this:
Thank you, my beautiful couch, for all the weight you carried, the comfort you gave, and the homes you made.  Conscious or not, it has been just enough to get me where I am. Make no mistake given your current position, I am grateful.
To my dear old Bessie 2008-2019. I’ll see you in Valhalla.*
P.S. *Reference for those who happen to be as into American Gods as I am.
P.P.S. If you’d like to join me in the whole thanking and the letting go, well, I’d welcome that. So would, I’m sure, your own Velveteen Rabbits.

Katie Anne Mitchell