Skip to main content

Hoarding and My Writing

Because Alan & I are starting a new business and I will be running the office side of it from home we have decided to make a concerted effort to tidy up our study/office. Part of that process involves me going through boxes and boxes of crap, throwing away the rubbish and finding homes for the lucky possessions that escape disposal.

This is a big deal for me because I was raised by a single mother who is a hoarder. She is still a hoarder and despite being a neat freak continues to hold on to Better Homes & Gardens Magazines from 1985 because one day she might like to go back and read them. This has, of course, led to me being a hoarder as well. I say of course but I suppose it is like anything, it could have gone one of two ways, it could have left me a complete minimalist who despised the thought of hoarding even the smallest item or it could have (and did) result in me being a hoarder to the extreme as well.

This time however, I decided to be ruthless. My hoarding does not make me happy, in fact it makes my depression worse. When my house is messy, my mind is messy and it gets me down. The thought of making it not messy also gets me down and so I enter an unhealthy spiral. Yesterday I created rubbish bag after rubbish bag of mess, ruthlessly throwing away items I have hoarded since I was 15 and younger. I threw away a box of letter my high school friends sent me after I moved to Perth, cause really what purpose do they serve me now? I haven't looked at them for over 5 years and why would I want to? I did nearly hyperventilate as I threw them away but I did it and I don't regret it.

However I also found some items I will never throw away. I found an old exercise book filled with poetry my 16 year old self wrote. My writing journal from Uni and some photos I thought were lost forever.

When I started this 30 Day Challenge I mentioned that I struggle with doing things everyday and when I opened up my old writing journal from Uni the first entry said this

The prospect of writing a journal, making entries every day, is a little scary to me. I have never been one to labour secretly over a locked book, recording my innermost thoughts. I become distracted. I forget that each day I am supposed to put myself on paper
Its good to know that somethings never change! I will probably be posting some more of my old writing in the next few days

Comments

  1. You need Peter Walsh.
    Seriously you are just sentimental. I have boxes of penpal/love letters, postcards all from a good 20+ years ago. These are my memories should the one in my head fail anytime soon. x

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Thanks for taking the time to comment!

Popular posts from this blog

I don't want to do this anymore

I am so over it right now. Everything feels hard. Everything feels shit. Everything makes me want to cry. I don't want to be a person any more. I don't want to be an anything any more. My children are smart. They get good grades, score well on NAPLAN, their teachers love them. Why then must they continue to do stupid things? I am so sick of a child running to tell me that so-and-so did such-and-such to me, I am sick of them hurting each other, I am sick of them destroying things, I am sick of them whinging, complaining, walking past rubbish on the floor, leaving shit everywhere, pretending they can't see the dog wee on the floor, having rooms that looking like the aftermath of a break and enter. I am sick of washing dishes, of sweeping floors, of the endless amounts of washing and folding and cleaning and tidying and cooking and planning and thinking. I am sick of feeling guilty for not being able to do those things that I should be doing, of feeling guilty that my husband...

Confessions of a Fat Girl

I have been concerned about my weight and appearance ever since I was 12. I was teased in primary school for being fat and called names like porky. Here is a picture from my Year 7 Graduation to illustrate how fat and disgusting I was I say fat and disgusting because I truly believed when I was 12 that I was some hideously fat monster that no boy would ever want to kiss, no boy would ever want to go out with, no boy would ever love. It makes me so sad looking at this photo to know that I was so slim, so pretty, my life should have been full of wonder and possibility. Instead I began my journey down the long dark road that has led me to the depths of depression and an obsession with my weight (but thankfully never an eating disorder) and today it has led me to make this confession... I am currently the heaviest I have ever been in my entire life. I have eaten myself to the weight I never wanted to be. I am the exact thing I was teased for being. Along with the fact that I don...

52Blogs: Voices and why I'm not really crazy

Quite often, when trying to explain my depression to people I use the phrase "my depression voice" or the "irrational voice" to describe the constant critic that lives in my head. Occasionally I wonder if people are going to take that to mean that I hear voices Beautiful Mind style or that I might start conducting a fight club with myself or talking to a giant rabbit. I can promise you that none of those thing are true, or are going to come true... well I might start talking to Frank but it's unlikely. However the truth is that I do deal with a constant voice in my head. The depression voice is always there, sometimes whispering quietly, sometimes screaming at me until I break. The depression voice is that arsehole that is constantly telling me that I'm not capable, that I'm worthless, that people don't like me. It's the voice that stops me from leaving my house, its the voice that looks in the mirror and tells me how ugly and unlovable I am...