A long discussion on hoarding with a good friend yesterday yielded the following story:
I can remember myself going down that path, and being surrounded with stuff, some for stability in a way; some for memories, since I’m one of these people that have big chunks of my memories/past missing, so I think I was trying to hold on to something. I still don’t remember a lot of my youth, but maybe I don’t need to or care to anymore, since I’ve reconnected on a much healthier level with my family, and have (I hope) healthier friendships. Now I’ve moved on to getting rid of stuff and can’t really imagine ever going back to saving everything. I even kept broken pens, I couldn’t throw them away, I used to think they would be lonely without me.
When I was talking to my sister’s boyfriend (N.) who helped my mom move, I remember he said something about a couple of things she kept that to him made no sense. They looked like trash, old stuff. When I got to my mom’s place I saw them immediately, but proudly displayed: a mirror from a great uncle, a kid’s chair my brother/sister and I used, a magazine holder I made in school, a table and a toy pirate ship my brother made. Apart from the table, the little chair, and magazine thing, still usable and in very good shape, I can see why N. thinks it’s crap (even the chair), but I think that’s how my mom keeps us there with her. No hoarding by any means, but our conversation made me think of it today. The way we look at things and the importance we attached to them is really in the eye of the beholder.