Ariel the Little Mermaid Figurine—mint condition, unopened—on unused desk in the top-left corner of room; ion light theory lamp, crookedly sitting on top of a pile of clean and dirty clothes; portrait drawing of me by ex-boyfriend, John, bookmarked in the current novel I’m reading, warped water-damaged postcard from childhood friend, Alanna, eight years ago; torn stuffed Hippo PillowPet in open box from first relationship ever—Belle—a dorky girl with glasses, long hair, and porcelain skin; Papa’s old ragtag heated blanket stuffed in corner of bed.

What do these things all have in common, despite the fact that they’re all in my room? Sentimentality. Value beyond their value. Memories. Nostalgia. Idealization of the past. Romanticism. Pseudo love. Pseudo feelings-that-make-me-feel-good-even-though-they’re-not-as-real-as-I-want-them-to-be.

Just throwing it out there, a disclaimer perhaps: I’m not a hoarder. Who am I trying to convince, you say? Well, just let me point it out for you like this: Everyone has a couple items that they’ve had ever since they were a baby that, to this day, they still cling on to with a death grip, despite how stale and worn it is at the hands of time. It’s normal. It’s human.

We all deliberately cling on to things that are dead and gone—things that don’t last. And maybe we do it, projecting our feelings onto these objects that aren’t alive because we want them to be alive, to be as meaningful to other people as they are to you. But objects can never possess feelings; humans do. Everyone wants a forever. But maybe that doesn’t exist in the form you think it does. Because nothing lasts forever. And that’s the scariest part about life.

Do you remember that point in your life when you clung onto something so stupid that you just wouldn’t give it up? When your parents have to tell you to throw that specific object out for the hundredth time, but you simply refuse. That moment, when you look her in the eye and tell her that there’s a couple more uses out of it, but she shakes her head in disagreement and tells you to get rid of it and just buy a new one. But you realize that you don’t want a new one—you don’t need a new one. Your old one is fine; it will do. But then you realize that not everything you cling on to is actually good for you; in fact, it could be toxic and even detrimental for your childhood development (in the way that separation anxiety and attachment issues finds its way into the crevices of your mind, your worst fears).

I have a heated blanket, but not just any heated blanket—my dad’s old ragtag heated blanket stuffed in the corner of my bed. Do I use it every night before I go to bed? Of course, I do. It smells of stale cigarettes and cheap Cambodian perfume. It’s soft like dream clouds, yet hard in some parts like a father’s love. It’s wiry, lumpy, and annoying, but warm nonetheless.

Before the blanket was given to me, Papa, as a late-twenty-something-year-old used it to keep himself enveloped in furnace warmth during the harsh Providence winter. In fact, it was so cold that December that his breath was visible. With great perseverance, he sacrificed his bodily autonomy in the heatless confines of his dilapidated shack to save up for a ring to propose to Ma. And eventually, he did. She said “Yes.”

After the heated blanket was heavily used by Papa, fast forward years later until I was about eight, when he first gave me the blanket. I remember I was sitting on my bed, waiting to be tucked in by Papa. He was late, which was unusual. He always came in on time at 9:00pm every single day—after a hard day’s work on top of roofs with his face darkened by sunburned skin—to tuck me in multiple times and kiss me goodnight. But it was already 9:15pm, and he still hadn’t shown up. After quite some time passed, I heard yelling outside my door—a man’s voice and a woman’s voice. If you want to leave, then go ahead! I’m not stopping you!

I bit my lip and feared the worst. So I hid under my covers, closed my eyes hard, and put my hands over my ears, trying to forget that this was even happening. This was my escapism in the form of quietude and nothingness. And then my father busted into the room suddenly with beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and his hair a frizzy black mop. Sorry, I’m late, my previous little girl, my only daughter. Now let me tuck you in.

Nodding my head slowly, I allowed him to wrap me in a soft burrito of love and comfort, and he allowed me to drift into dreams of fluffiness and childhood memories. He even untucked me to tuck me in again and again, my silly little pleasures—the memories that I keep surfaced in my head at all times when bad things arise, as if to protect myself from the evils of the world. It was a kindness for myself, something for me to keep, to hold on to no matter what.

But those little fingers couldn’t hold on to the tiny little grains of sand that fell from them this time. It’s impossible to catch every single grain. It’s because I was too selfish. It’s because I tried to hold on too hard, to cling on to eternity. This is karma. This is all my fault. Did I deserve this?

After he was done, he made a beeline toward the door and was about to disappear out of my life forever, until I called his name—until I truly lied to him for the first and last time in my life. I’m cold, Papa. And with that, he exited the room, carried a mountain of blankets including his heated blanket, married the plug and outlet together, and plopped it on top of me. One last time, he tucked me in for good measure. And that was that. He tried to leave again, and this time I let him.

He left me. He left me for dead. Like they always do. Am I not important to you? Am I not worthy enough of your love, for you to take me with you? Am I just nothing to you? Have I always been nothing to you? Did you even love me? Did any of you even love me? If you did, you wouldn’t have done this to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry too.

Perhaps I have spent too much time clinging on to useless things in my life—things that should’ve been thrown out years ago, but I’m just too sentimental for that kind of stuff. I don’t think I have it in me to throw out memories—the things I grew up with, all my life. Papa’s heated blanket in this case—that old ragtag thrash-worthy blanket with years and years of love and hatred embedded into its stains, stubbled fluff, and frayed wires.

Perhaps I’m just too happy hoarding a million little trinkets in my room the way Ariel from the Little Mermaid does. She has twenty thing-a-ma-bobs, but somehow she still wants more. But unlike Ariel, I think I’m just content with the things that I already do have. I have a profound appreciation for them, since they’re special to me. They will always have a little place in my heart no matter what. That’s just the kind of person I am and have always been.

Some people don’t bat an eyelash when they throw out pictures of their ex’s or old journals from their elementary school or rag-tag childhood plushies like the trash they’re meant to be. But I can’t do that. I’m scared of letting go. I’m scared of what it means to let go. Because everything I’ve ever loved somehow disappears out of my life, and I have no power to control it. That is my worst fear in the entire world—when people leave me. That is why I keep trash laying around. Because it can never leave me.

But this time, I let it go. I let it go in order to grow as a person—to be better, to get better. Yeah, that’s why—because I needed to grow up and be an adult in the real world instead of a child attempting to control everything, the things that can never be controlled—people. And I think I’m finally ok with that. Because as cliché as it is to say this: If you love anything in life, you must let it go. That’s the key to happiness—the ability to feel the emotion, accept what you can’t control, and then let it go.