To Part With or Not To Part With? That is the Question.
If I Hold onto Remnants of My Past, Does that Make Me a Hoarder?
I hadn’t been to my friend Amy’s home in years, so when I visited recently, I was alarmed to see the things she had amassed over the years piled in every corner. In the living room, in the bedrooms, in the kitchen, and even encroaching on the hallways.
It was disturbed to see this. Amy had been so meticulous, cleaning and dusting every weekend, without fail. Now, I feared that she had a serious problem with stuff. That she had become a hoarder.
I had been visiting from out of town and had plans to stay the night at her place. There were shoe boxes piled up around the bedroom in which I was to stay. Although I had second thoughts about spending the night, I did. As I drifted off to sleep, the walls of shoeboxes that surrounded me swayed in my mind and seemed to close in on me. I had a new appreciation for the claustrophobic.
It’s hard for me to understand the psychology of hoarding, of keeping so much stuff that it suffocates you. But this morning, I awoke wondering if I might have a tendency for hoarding too.
Over the last ten years, after the death of my parents, I’ve rid myself of so many belongings. Many of these items had been my parents and grandparents. Two years ago I parted with many of my very own things–furniture, clothes, pictures, yearbooks, even the house I’d called home for almost 20 years.
Three weeks ago, I shipped several items with which I couldn’t part to France for more money than I wish to disclose. These belongings were the few things I didn’t know what to do with a week before I boarded the plane to start my new life in France. So I had rented a storage locker and forgot about my belongings for two years. Well, not completely.
The rising monthly bill for the storage unit was a reminder that I’d have to deal with it at some point. So that was what I did.
Emptying my storage unit and ending my contract was a big reason for my trip back to the United States this year. That, and speaking to a group of female entrepreneurs in March. While I was here, I decided to tick off two of my bucket list items, too–see a Broadway show and The Daily Show with Trevor Noah live. All of which I ‘m happy to say I can check off my list.
Emptying my storage unit and getting it shipped to France came at a big price, however, being stranded in the US during this COVID-19 scare. Not only am I away from my new home and feeling the stress that comes with that, but I have to make two rent payments (one in France and one in the US). This is money that I really could use for other things.
But it is done now. And shipping my cherished possessions is a huge step, that signals my commitment to my new life in France.
This morning however, I awoke wondering if my inability to toss, donate, or sell my remaining belongings was a sign that I too have tendencies of a hoarder.
It’s possible, but I don’t think it likely.
After clearing out three homes (my dad’s, my mom’s, and then mine) of years of accumulated stuff, I think twice about buying things that might become clutter or turn into a hoard.
If I don’t think it’s likely, then you might be wondering why I am keeping the things I’m shipping overseas. The answer is simple. When I left the US to start a new life in France, I gave up so much of who I was. In my mind, I would speak French like a native, make new friends, and become someone new, leaving my old self behind.
I’m not yet there with the language, and over the last two years, I’ve learned to appreciate who I am–my experiences and mistakes, upbringing, quirks, and even my American accent when I speak French. These are the things that make me unique and provide my perspective and insight on life. But I thought that these were things I needed to discard to find out who I truly am.
Some of these things include a few physical remnants of my past. My 52-year-old wooden highchair, hand made by a Pennsylvania Dutch craftsman, the jet black paint worn, the wood nicked, but still solid as ever.
My mom and Dad’s wedding album that tells the beginning of my families story. A story that was supposed to end with a happily ever after, but which ended in an ugly divorce.
The journals I’d written over the years, and more especially the journals and stories my mom, an aspiring writer, crafted in hopes of being published.
And then there is the wedding gown my mom had had preserved for me. I hadn’t been interested in wearing it when I eloped in Las Vegas way back in 2004. Good thing too, because I had been too big to fit in any way, then. But now I’m just the right size to fit into it. Should the occasion arise, I would be honored to wear it.
These things are more than belongings; they tell a story, my story and to let them go, acting as if they aren’t relevant to me (as I had planned to discard my identity two years ago) just felt wrong, dishonest, impossible.
I have hopes of meeting the man of my dreams. When I do, I want to be able to share some elements of my history in physical form with him. These vestiges connect me to my past and will link to my future.
