I am surrounded by shit. No, it doesn’t stink (well, sometimes it does) but it does take up every possible ounce of space. I’m a clutterer. I don’t know exactly when it started, or why nearly EVERYTHING became sentimental. Every home I have made has been filled with chotchkies and memories from good times had. I felt it got better when Kevin died, mostly because all of our mutual junk was put away in a barn for the first year after he died. But eventually, when my roommate left, it needed to be unpacked.
The unpacking of The Boitsons meant unpacking us as a couple. Items that were packed away when he was living and we moved in with my parents. Items that symbolized a couple who had a young marriage, an un-put-together wedding album, wedding presents never used. I remember the chaos clearly. I drug the antique chest that we bought at my Grandparents’ sale up the stairs…myself (and wonder why I needed back surgery?!). The apartment was a nightmare for several days as I sort through my past.
Once everything was organized I got into routines. Life felt…organized. In its place. Then, as I began moving forward, I felt the need to purge more, to release some of Kevin’s items into the wild. The last purge to happen was this Spring when I left go enough to donate his name stitched carhart jacket from his work to the local Goodwill. What was I going to do with it?
Now, as I live in a home with *mostly* all my things, I see tons and tons of sentimental things all around. Some necessary, some just here because I have them. All needing organized, sorted, put away, or given away.
I have recently taking up an addiction with Pinterest, and I’d be lying if some of the crafty folks on there haven’t inspired me to get this shit in order. That, and the hope that whenever I move again, it will be the least pain in the butt move ever. Having moved 9 times in 6 years, pain-free moves are a must now.
Oh look, time to change the calendar again. And sell some stuff on my Facebook page – Ikea rug & chair anyone? Time to organize the desk, put away the clothes, open the closet and hope I come out alive.
Three years after Kevin’s death and he’s still in my home, but I am proud to say that this style is the new me, not the mourning me.