Jamalyn (jamalyn) wrote,

First world problems...

So I'm running into a problem. I've lived in my current house for almost 12 years now. That's 12 years of accumulating crap the way you only can when you're not moving often.

This is the first time I've ever really been in one place this long. It's also the largest living space I've ever had. Years and years I spent living in a kitchen-bath-bed set up that clocked in at under 200 square feet. In that situation you learn very quickly to question the inclusion of even the smallest things in your life.

But it is easy, oh so easy, to get away from that when you move in to 2000 square feet. I can remember moving into this house. I felt like I was rattling around with endless space at my disposal.

But, much like so many other creatures, we really do grow to fit our containers. And yes, this applies to both girth and crap. *grins*

The answer seems obvious: throw shit out. (Or give it away or donate it, etc). But in practice, it is much, much more difficult.

I sometimes watch episodes of a show called Hoarders. I'm am hesitant to even own up to this very human penchant to gawk at those dubbed "stranger" than myself. After all, I still have working plumbing and have never lost a beloved pet only to discover their mummified corpse years later, therefore I must be succeeding at this thing called "life." And yet, I do relate to these people, in a way that often frightens me.

What I've seen over and over on that show are these clearly mentally ill people being presented with something of little or no real value and yet, they cannot bring themselves to part from it. There's always some "USE" they can see.

And I get that. I've felt that.

(I feel the need to interject that my stuff isn't covered in literal mouse shit. Therefore I am "OK," but why do I feel the need to make that distinction? Is it even a distinction? As much as I hate to admit it, I'm not entirely sure).

My home has also become a dumping ground for fellow family members. I'm looking at you, piles of computer shit in my guestroom, boxes of books I've no interest in reading in my closet, and fur coats that wouldn't fit me even if I didn't live in SOUTH EAST TEXAS. At what point to do you lay out the ultimatum: I don't want your shit. Come get it or it's going to the landfill/goodwill.

And what do you do, really do, when they blow past any official deadline you finally work up the courage to set and yet you know if you made good, you'd carry their blame and animosity until they had the good graces to go join the great majority?

Brush your hands off and say good riddance? Toss the shit as threatened? I don't know if I'm that brave. Okay fine. I know I'm not that brave.

Anyway, it's a shitty thing to be whining about. Woe is me. I have too much stuff.

Still, I'd like to get back to actually knowing what I have.

Hell, at this point, I'd settle for just knowing where to start.

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