(no subject)
Livejournal, I am bored to tears right now. I've spent the last several weeks alternating between applying for jobs which I am hugely overqualified for (there are none currently available for which I am suitably qualified) and cleaning up my horrifically messy house. I feel proud of myself for the cleaning up, but I do not find it satisfying.
When I'm not bored to tears, I'm usually either sobbing or hyperventilating or both. I intend to move in August this year. That means I have approximately six months to go through everything I own and decide what I'm keeping and what I'm putting in storage and what I'm throwing out. I don't think I ever previously appreciated just how disastrous my hoarding problem is. I already have several boxes of stuff to go to an op shop, and I'm okay with that, but I'm going to have to get rid of so much more. Stuff that I do still care about and sometimes use or could legitimately use in the future. The idea of letting go of any of my possessions makes me feel dizzy and ill.
The worst is the books, and the fabric stash. So many beautiful words! The smell of books and the weight of them in my hands and the way I have cared for them all, even the ones I've read in excess of 20 times each, so that they still look like I just bought them. My books are my old friends. Always there for me, never too busy or too tired to talk to me and comfort me. And my fabric- the soft flowing potential for so many lovely things. Carefully chosen and stored away for the day when I can afford and have time to do it justice. And if I sell it off, I'll never get what it's worth and I'll never have the satisfaction of creating something beautiful with it. Some of that fabric I've had for years, waiting until I find the right trim to match it or the right event to make the dress or the costume I imagined or until my skills were good enough to be able to work it right. Selling it means selling off my dreams; small dreams, to be sure, not comparable to the dream of living overseas, but still.
And then there's everything else I own, a lot of it very old and worn out because a) I can't afford replacement stuff a lot of the time and b) as mentioned, I hoard.
I don't know how I ever accumulated so much stuff. And so much of it with memories and hopes and dreams attached, and I don't know how other people can just deal with throwing away old things so easily or what is wrong with me that I can't.
At least every other day I find a small item that reminds me of a time earlier in my relationship with Mark. Back when things were good and simple and we thought it was going to be forever. Shells we collected on a beach; a silly book I gave him on our two month "anniversary"; the dried petals of roses he gave me on my birthday years ago; jewellery, dvds, and other gifts he has given me; the clothes I wore on our first date, now totally worn out; stupid photobooth pictures we took at Timezone after playing Dance Dance Revolution and beating up plastic crocodiles. Many of these things have been lying in dusty corners underneath other stuff for who knows how long, but the thought of throwing any of it in the bin fills me with revulsion. It's foolish. I'll still have the memories and it's not like I've missed any of it when I didn't know where it was or forgot I even had it, and a lot of it serves absolutely no purpose, but I just can't stand the idea of not having it any more and the thought of it sitting in landfill makes me sick.
I suppose this is good for me, making me confront all the things that make me anxious.
I hate it.
When I'm not bored to tears, I'm usually either sobbing or hyperventilating or both. I intend to move in August this year. That means I have approximately six months to go through everything I own and decide what I'm keeping and what I'm putting in storage and what I'm throwing out. I don't think I ever previously appreciated just how disastrous my hoarding problem is. I already have several boxes of stuff to go to an op shop, and I'm okay with that, but I'm going to have to get rid of so much more. Stuff that I do still care about and sometimes use or could legitimately use in the future. The idea of letting go of any of my possessions makes me feel dizzy and ill.
The worst is the books, and the fabric stash. So many beautiful words! The smell of books and the weight of them in my hands and the way I have cared for them all, even the ones I've read in excess of 20 times each, so that they still look like I just bought them. My books are my old friends. Always there for me, never too busy or too tired to talk to me and comfort me. And my fabric- the soft flowing potential for so many lovely things. Carefully chosen and stored away for the day when I can afford and have time to do it justice. And if I sell it off, I'll never get what it's worth and I'll never have the satisfaction of creating something beautiful with it. Some of that fabric I've had for years, waiting until I find the right trim to match it or the right event to make the dress or the costume I imagined or until my skills were good enough to be able to work it right. Selling it means selling off my dreams; small dreams, to be sure, not comparable to the dream of living overseas, but still.
And then there's everything else I own, a lot of it very old and worn out because a) I can't afford replacement stuff a lot of the time and b) as mentioned, I hoard.
I don't know how I ever accumulated so much stuff. And so much of it with memories and hopes and dreams attached, and I don't know how other people can just deal with throwing away old things so easily or what is wrong with me that I can't.
At least every other day I find a small item that reminds me of a time earlier in my relationship with Mark. Back when things were good and simple and we thought it was going to be forever. Shells we collected on a beach; a silly book I gave him on our two month "anniversary"; the dried petals of roses he gave me on my birthday years ago; jewellery, dvds, and other gifts he has given me; the clothes I wore on our first date, now totally worn out; stupid photobooth pictures we took at Timezone after playing Dance Dance Revolution and beating up plastic crocodiles. Many of these things have been lying in dusty corners underneath other stuff for who knows how long, but the thought of throwing any of it in the bin fills me with revulsion. It's foolish. I'll still have the memories and it's not like I've missed any of it when I didn't know where it was or forgot I even had it, and a lot of it serves absolutely no purpose, but I just can't stand the idea of not having it any more and the thought of it sitting in landfill makes me sick.
I suppose this is good for me, making me confront all the things that make me anxious.
I hate it.