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packrat
Mostly what I've been doing is making decisions lately. "Decluttering." Getting rid. Selling. Selling. This is what I can do right now to get ready to move. This is all I can do. It's the middle of winter, it's difficult to even leave town, let alone move house. I stuck my head into my husband's second studio and almost had a fit. Floor to ceiling shit. Boxes and wires and wires and tools and metal and boxes and you can take a few steps into the door, then have to back out. No wonder we haven't moved yet. He can't even get out of bed to make dinner, how the fuck is he going to find the energy to go through his stuff, to get rid of his stuff, to pack up his stuff...I'm at a loss. I really am.
When things were bad earlier last year, I was able to pack up my entire art studio in an hour. I had everything in boxes sitting in the middle of the floor waiting to go on the moving truck and get away from him, from this place.
I look at my things, and I see the sadness in everything. I remember why I bought it. I thought it would make me happy. I intended to make something with that. I thought I was going to use it for meditation. There is always an excuse or a reason to every "thing". I thought that maybe that thing could simulate happiness for a little while. And maybe it did, but now it doesn't. I think happiness is extinct. Spend a little time in mourning, then keep on keeping on. We will all learn to live without it.
I look at everything I own, and very little of it makes me happy. I realize I have done this exact thing many many times in my life, and sometimes I have regretted my decisions. I no longer have some things that I do wish I had now. But, there's nothing to be done about it. But I still think about it. Manic decision and woosh, gone forever. Stupid OCD brain.
It's more than that simplicity of "sparking joy". It's the realization that we have a house that is almost 3,000 square feet, and we are looking at places that are 700 square feet. I don't know how I am going to live in a little box with my husband without killing him. It's not funny. It's serious.
He needs to get his shit together, figuratively and literally, or I will just leave one day when he's out and never speak to him again. I don't want to, but maybe I'll have to. I know I can pack quickly and get gone a hell of a lot faster than he can. And if I can declutter even more, it will be even easier.
It's not sparking joy, it's necessity. You can pack things into a storage unit, but for how long? I don't think I am ever going to be in a position to be able to own a house again. I'm one freak out away from being homeless. I can't take care of myself. I'm probably going to end up being a burden to my brother until he drops dead of a heart attack and then his wife will cut me loose and I really will be homeless.
I'll be a 50 year old homeless woman that talks to herself and has bad skin and smells. It's scary. I hope that won't happen. But I will probably die in some abandoned doorway like a dog in the street.
So all these little trinkets. These things. They don't mean shit. There's no one to leave them to. No one cares. I realized today that the last time I socialized on a regular basis was high school. That's like, 30 years ago. No. 25. OMFG this is my 25 year anniversary of my high school graduation.
Holy fucking shit. I have so much stuff, but I got nothing.
11:19 PM - Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2020
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