Bonus Episode: The Pocket Knife

Not my usual newsletter, round 3 🌊

Welcome to another bonus episode of my monthly newsletter. There’s no theme really to these, except that they usually come at times when I’m sort of having a meltdown, or moving past one. Check out my last bonus episode where I talk about what it takes to move past your comfort zone, and my experiences with doing so.

Ever get excited about moving on post-breakup? Well, welcome to the reality of things, which is that something as little as whittling a roasting stick while camping triggers an entire day of icky emotions and tears. But, for some context…

When my ex-boyfriend moved out of the apartment we spent over a year in with our dog, he left a lot behind. I tried to fit all of this into a 3x3 box, also referred to as a “cube” box by professional movers, but soon the items started to overflow, and the things I meant to leave for him to pick up when he returned to the apartment after I moved out were being left in the trash or begrudgingly packed up to be used in my “new life”. He left sneakers, work tools, glassware, paintings, cups, things he used on the day-to-day. He left a women’s jacket that was nowhere near anything I’d ever wear, nor would his mom, or his sister, and I hadn’t seen it ever before.

After I moved out, I sent him a text letting him know that I was gone, that he could leave the things of mine that he accidentally packed up in there and I’d come back for them, and that he could expect to find a box of his things left there, as well. It was countered with a response that he was never returning to the apartment again. So, I accepted that I’d never get hundreds of dollars worth of bedding back, nor would I get my Hack the North fanny pack that I got when I was an organizer, and that the box of things would just end up in the trash.

There were a few things I was sadly, but proudly bringing into my “new life”, post him. A new found attention to detail, a drive to do things right the first time, an appreciation for street art and graffiti, a tea set his mom gifted us after we moved into the apartment, aptly chosen because it was fair-trade made in Vietnam and she said it was “meant for us”, the ability to build a fire correctly, and a pocket knife.

My ex and his pocket knife

My friends always sort of poked fun at my ex, even when we were together, for carrying around a pocket knife. I didn’t mind that they did this because it was one of the things I loved most about him. I liked the hard skills he had: knowing how to set up a fishing rig, a whole repertoire of knots and their most efficient use cases, a whole kit of tools for putting anything up on the walls that I wanted. The knife was a bit of a personality definer, though. It didn’t matter if we were going to a restaurant where we’d pay $17 for a drink, or if we were just going to the dog park. It didn’t matter if he was wearing swim trunks from H&M, or heavy duty cargo pants. He’d always have a pocket knife strapped to him in his front right pocket. He pulled it out more than I felt necessary, but I could never complain about how convenient it was— especially if we were eating out and I wanted to split something that was better off being cut in half.

In the early months of our relationship, he made me practice opening and closing his pocket knife. It scared the shit out of me, and I’ve always been someone who liked to have my nails done, so me and this pocket knife did not get along. But as we geared up to move in together, and then unpack, the pocket knife skills became more and more necessary. After we moved into our apartment together in Downtown Kitchener, he gifted me my own pocket knife after watching me open and close it a few times. Then, he put it in one of my leather Coach purses and told me that I need to take it with me whenever I leave the house.

That’s definitely not what happened. Frankly, I forgot about it for a while, but when we went backcountry camping together for the first time and I asked him to whittle my roasting stick, he asked me where my knife was. I sheepishly told him it was at home, and he shook his head in disappointment.

I didn’t think about that pocket knife until over a year later. One thing that he also taught me was how to pack and move efficiently— a far cry from the garbage bags and suitcases I used to use everytime I moved for an internship while I was in university.

The ex-boyfriend spent years as a “professional mover”. It was his first gig as a teenager and he did it on and off throughout his 20s. When he realized that his career in graphic design and advertising wasn’t for him, he went back to working as a mover full time, where he met a skilled tradesman and was inspired to take the same route for himself. While we were dating, he’d spend Saturday’s working at the moving company. He felt a lot of love and loyalty to the people from that moving company.

We were living together for 2 weeks after we broke up, which was amicable and fine until I went away for a weekend to attend my work Christmas party in Toronto. When I came back, I was met with stone-cold silence. Our dog was confused before, but nothing distressed him quite like the new dynamic in our household. The Monday after that weekend, I asked him when he was moving out. He already found a place he could move into and he told me he could move at any time, he just hadn’t.

“I can get boxes tonight and take off work tomorrow and move out.”

“Okay. Can you get me a few boxes as well?”

“Yup.”

And so, less than 5 hours after that conversation, he came home with a ton of moving boxes, moving paper, and moving tape. While he was bringing them into the apartment I heard him having a conversation with our neighbor in the hallway, in which I’m sure he aired all of our dirty laundry to, because for the two weeks I lived there alone after that, she refused to make eye contact with me or acknowledge me. I always could tell she liked him better, anyway.

I packed up the way he taught me to, hired movers (from a different company), and after the last of my boxes were moved to my new apartment, I found the first reasonable use case for that damn pocket knife. I had layers and layers of moving tape to move through, but my purses were nested in each other, nested in one of my camping backpacks, and I knew exactly where I’d find that pocket knife. If he hadn’t taken it when he was packing, of course.

There it was, in the same purse he left it in, opening and closing the way I practiced it, useful as ever. Helping me get started on my new life without him. I couldn’t help but think about him every time I picked it up. Not in the, “I miss him and can’t believe we’re not together anymore”, kind of way, but in the, “Fuck you, I always knew I could do this and I’m doing it now”, kind of way.

What was taken, and what was left

That’s what I hated about his do-all attitude, as much as I loved it. There was no trial and error with him, there was no putzing around or delegating (which was my favorite skill I developed after working as the Head of Operations at a marketing agency for a year), and there was a new found self-doubt that I’ve literally never, ever felt before.

I’m thankful that I’ve lived life throughout my early 20s with little fear. I’ve yearned for independence and trusted my decision making and judgement from a young age— being raised by immigrant parents will do that for you. It’s why I had no fear traveling alone, moving to new cities for job opportunities, understanding what resources to lean on. But the relationship I had with my ex all but stripped that away from me. I was reliant on him, and I felt I couldn’t do things without him, and I shouldn’t want to.

The pocket knife lessons were a huge eye roll for me. When I lived in San Francisco, I carried around a pocket pepper spray and despite living in The Mission where there were frequent shootings and an increasing un-homed population, I never had to use it. And I felt I had little reason to use a pocket knife in Kitchener, Canada. But it was great for opening moving boxes, for cutting through furniture packaging, and for reminding me that I can, indeed, do this without him.

It’s such a small thing that feels of little consequence. As I’ve settled into my apartment, I found less and less reason to use the knife regularly. So it went in my little side table, that used to be his bedside table, and it sits beside a pink toolkit I ordered from Amazon when I moved into my spot. But, this past weekend, I went backcountry camping for the first time since I had last gone, with my ex boyfriend. This time it was with my best friend, her boyfriend, and my current boyfriend. My boyfriend and best friend had never been backcountry camping before, while her boyfriend and myself had a bit of experience (her boyfriend having way, way more than me). We found sticks that would be great for roasting and her boyfriend offered up his pocket knife to whittle them, teaching her how to open and close it, teaching her how to whittle.

I wanted to cry or say a prayer or do something. All of these feelings of gratitude, resentment, and nostalgia came rushing over me. After all, we were camping on the same lake that my ex and I portaged to on our first camping trip together.

First of all, I couldn’t believe that I forgot to bring my pocket knife while camping, yet again. Second of all, hearing how kindly and patiently my best friend’s boyfriend explained the knife mechanisms to her made me realize that there is a way to do so without patronizing the “learning” party. But most of all, my ex’s voice rang in my head.

“If I teach you anything in this relationship, it’ll be how to use a knife.”

He absolutely did teach me how to use a knife, but that, along with the relationship as a whole, came with a pre-requisite: I no longer as allowed to pursue the things that made me uniquely me. I was only encouraged to pursue things that contributed to his vision of the world, to the life he wanted. He took away my steadfastness and ability to trust myself, my independence, my yearning for more, my individuality.

So, while he left a lot of things when he moved out of our apartment, I’m so, so glad that he left this pocket knife. Besides the fact that it’s incredibly functional, and that I’ve learned how to open it without ruining my manicure, it’s a not-so-subtle reminder to myself: do not let anyone, ever, lead you to astray from fearlessness.