My Big Blue Fuzzy Blanket
July, 2024
Last night, as I lay in that limbo, waiting for sleep to wrap its fingers around my brain and whisk me away into an unsettling dream featuring all of my exes, my thoughts had ulterior motives. First of all, the DJ in my mind decided to press play on Remi Wolf’s Kangaroo (stream Big Ideas — it slaps), but mostly, I couldn’t stop thinking about my big blue fuzzy blanket that I had snuggled up to my chin in my typical sleeping position. How it’s still one of my sleepy-time essentials at almost a decade old, how it came into my life, and all the moments – the joyous, the depressing, the terrifying, the relieving – that it’s witnessed over the years.
In a society so preoccupied with the pressure to consume, to buy, to keep up with trends, where something new could be on its way to you with the simple click of a button, we are constantly inundated with objects. Addicted to that rush of dopamine that accompanies the package at the front door. As someone who clinically struggles to regulate my dopamine — boy, do I know that rush. Just last week, I pressed the purchase button on Depop so hastily that I accidentally sent the package to my traumatic old house and roommates. Thankfully, I had a friend snatch it off the doorstep, but it did feel like the universe was yelling at me, “WAS THIS NEW OBJECT WORTH IT?”
As my mobility has decreased over the past year and my spoons have dwindled, I’ve started to spend a lot more time at home and am often asking myself that same question. Like if I really need that fourth Trader Joe’s tote bag, the Converse I wore once for Pride three years ago, or if I’m ever going to use the 20-pound weighted blanket under my bed if I throw out my shoulder every time I try to lift it. Because after a certain number of days glued to my bed with a migraine or on the couch icing a sprained joint, I start to ponder each object I have chosen to surround myself with. I usually find myself using my next OCD x ADHD hyperfixation craze to round these forgotten objects into piles and trash bags, eventually rehoming them through my friends or my local thrift store.
The more clutter and forgotten objects I purge from my space, the more I realize how intimate a relationship I have with the ones left, how they each tell a story. It could be a story I just entered, like with my thrifted bookcase, or a story I’m deeply intertwined with, like my big blue fuzzy blanket.
And in this slow-moving chapter of my life, I’m often parked on my couch or bed watching YouTube. Recently, I’ve found myself drawn to videos about living in tiny homes or vans, celebrities doing “what’s in my bag” interviews, or GQ’s “10 essential items.” It’s not so much that I’m intrigued by the objects themselves, but what they show about a person and their values. This is what consumerism enshrouds. The stories and intimate ties behind why we carry around some items and not others, the deep self-questioning and reflection that come with prioritizing certain objects when living in a smaller space.
Some recent favorites include Charli XCX keeping a banana in her bag in case she gets hungry, though it always inevitably ends up rotting; Emma Roberts keeping a blanket in her tote, which she affectionately refers to as an “anxiety-rag”; Halle Bailey keeping a adorable Black plush mermaid keychain on her keys; and Julia Fox carrying around an extra vape in her cunty handbag in case hers dies (we love a woman whose prepared). Of course, there’s the element of these individuals being celebrities, and the question arises: why do we even care what they are carrying around in their designer handbags? Which, yes, I agree with, but it’s also entertaining as hell. Something as simple as sharing what items you carry around on a daily basis is a reminder of our shared humanity. I think a lot of us can feel seen by an “anxiety rag.” It’s a small reminder that we’re not alone on this fear-inducing planet.
I love looking around my apartment at the stories that surround me. The monstera plant I got in a strange Facebook Marketplace parking lot exchange two years ago, growing alongside me and nearly doubling in size in the past year (I call him Big Guy); the vinyl records I stole from my dad’s collection that were likely collecting dust in the attic for the past 20 years (now they can collect dust with me); the ceramic ashtray with a joint precariously balancing on it, lovingly stolen by my mother from an incredibly fancy restaurant; and of course, my big blue fuzzy blanket.
It came into my life almost 10 years ago. I was 12 and had just returned from multiple extended stays at the hospital. I remember going to see my best friend for the first time after being back and neither of us having the words to talk about my absence. I think it was her mom’s idea to present me with the blanket as a welcome-home gift, something to say, “We’re happy you’re back. Here is something to keep you cozy and cared for as you settle back into life.” It was so simple, but it made me feel safe at a time when I wasn’t inclined to feel that way. And the blanket’s been on my bed ever since. Witnessing the tossing and turning of a confused middle schooler, soaking up my tears as a closeted high schooler, and likely mocking my performance of cisgendered heterosexuality it often endured. I even dragged it across the country to my college dorm room and the apartments that followed, wrapping it around me during panic attacks and depressive streamings of Les Misérables, or passing out on top of it after a long day of trying to exist as a disabled college student in an aggressively able institution. As exhausting as living can be, when I look at my big blue fuzzy blanket, I am reminded of all those stories, my strength of survival, and that I deserve comfort and care in the midst of all this chaos. Unfortunately, it’s too big to fit into a bag, but if GQ ever asks me to do my 10 essential items… maybe I would bring it ;).
But like my blanket, I want to be intentional with the objects I surround myself with. I want them to hold a story. It doesn’t always have to be one of love or perseverance; it could be a story of loss, grief, or even failure. It just brings me joy to look around at a blanket, a plant, or an ashtray and think of and feel the stories they hold and the lessons they teach. You cannot buy that shit on Depop.
