I don’t know why but when I’m stressed out or emotionally hurt I feel the need to throw things away. My brother is the opposite, he’s a hoarder. When Dad came round Sunday and found me with a huge heap of stuff ready for the charity shop he said throwing things away is therapeutic as it represents getting rid of the things you don’t need in life. I don’t think I’d ever really thought about why I do it.
I’m very sentimental and do keep things because of who gave them to me, or memories attached to them. I still have diaries I wrote when I was 15, a dress my gran made for my mum when she was younger but i’ll never wear, and a book a stranger gave me on holiday in Scotland which got me through University. I hoard in my own little way. But everything else is dispensable, if it has no emotion attached to it – it can go.
Unusually the scale of this process this time seems to far out weight anything that has gone before. Am I feeling lost more than usual?
Three huge sacks of clothes (why do I have so many?), books (some I’ve not read since University and I can’t understand how they’ve survived previous declutters) and a whole heap of other random stuff. But this time I haven’t stopped there – a sofa, a desk and a book case are also for the chop. Despite this my house still seems cluttered, maybe its not my house that frustrates me but my life?
So on to my life. I feel like severing ties with pointless relationships I have too. Groups where I live which I got involved with in order to be helpful and be a good citizen and to meet people when I first moved here, all ultimately draining on my time and energy now. I want to tell them all I’m walking away, (a few will survive the cull).
This process makes me feel somewhat better about the events of the weekend, like I’ve lightened the weight of my house and therefore the weight on my shoulders. The worst bit though is realizing that the home I’ve lived in for the last 7 years is just a house and doesn’t feel like a home. At least right now it doesn’t.
I moved to the village as it had always been somewhere I wanted to live and its beautiful in a wild West Yorkshire way. But I now feel like I don’t belong there. I never intended to live alone for the last 7 years so what on earth am I doing here? And I have no affinity with where I grew up, so I’m feeling a bit homeless and lost, emotionally. Why do I live here when them man I wanted to be with won’t move here? Why do I have a house of pointless stuff?
Thank God, Dad arrived when he did as I needed a male hug I could trust and a good cry on his shoulder.
There’s one thing which might not have a sentimental attachment but isn’t for the chop, and that’s the yarn stash! That’s my only other form of therapy.