Confessions of a Recovering Hoarder

I admit that finally tossing that blue plastic Smurfs lunchbox from First grade stressed me out. But the Smurfs had to go, along with the Shirt Tails, Strawberry Shortcake, and Rainbow Brite. All of my elementary school lunchboxes were memories of sitting with my friends eating the lunch that my mama dutifully made me everyday. So just what kind of a daughter would I be to just toss out those sappy sweet memories? After all, I swear the smell of the PB & J sandwiches still lingered among them. Ah, what memories!

Memories, yes, the sentimental mush that I am, had led me directly into the path of a hoarders nightmare. But let me go back to the beginning....

I grew up in a home that was built by my great grandfather in 1888- a true Victorian 2 story masterpiece filled with the antique furniture and belongings of all the family who lived and died there before me. An attachment cottage in the back end was later separated and placed several hundred feet away on the same estate. It too was full of antiques treasures.

So I began to slowly collect, accumulate, and thrive on my own ever growing mass of "stuff". I could part with nothing. So as a young newly married 21 year old with two homes full of "stuff", the logical thing to when I moved into a one bedroom apartment was to toss, donate, or sell what remained. Hmmm, nope I thought. Loading up a rental storage unit was a much better idea. And I did just that! (O.K, so it was actually two storage units, but who's counting?). Everything in a box or a sterilite container. Furniture too. Books galore. Not bad, I thought. I still had access to all of my "stuff" whenever I needed something, or whenever I could find it. Even that did not stop my insatiable desire to collect more "stuff", especially books and magazines. And clothes, well forget about that!

My clothes were so much a part of me. I had my really, really skinny clothes, my average size clothes, my "bloated" clothes, and my super fat don't talk to me clothes. Then I had two babies in 2 years. So add to that my stash of too cute to give away maternity clothes. My denim jackets, my knee tied knickers, and my Dirty Dancing era cut off jean shorts...they would all come back into style if I kept them long enough, I convinced myself.

Periodically, I would have moments of remorse- toss a few things, and keep even more. But the stuff kept growing as did all the clothes, toys and other items having two young children necessitate.

Each time I would half heartedly decide to downsize and clear my life of clutter, an absurd amount of panic and avoidance engulfed me. Excuses! I had the goal and the good intention but not enough courage to face it head on.

Until one day, I fell inside my storage unit. There I was bleeding, bleary and teary eyed, overcome with a sense of helplessness and humiliation. I cried my eyes out at the mess I had become- longing to get rid of my "stuff", yet unable to do it alone. Something that takes years to build up can not be erased overnight.

So the journey began, piece by piece, aided by my mother, who is extremely neat with her "stuff" - who incidentally begged me to Please toss those lunchboxes ( They smell bad!), and anyone else whom I could bribe into helping me.

Its taken years to develop a level of discernment over what to keep, toss, or give away. And though I enjoy the ability to not have to step over "stuff", to get to more "stuff", I am not super organized. I still struggle daily with my "stuff." I am still working on the tossing, donating, and keeping issues, one section at a time. The process is overwhelming, but the desire for change and organization demand putting me through reviewing items full of memories, and taking control. It's hard. But I know in the end, the organization and clarity it will bring to my life and that of my family is the trigger I need to keep sorting through my "stuff."