I'm almost a hoarder, and the more of my stuff I pack up for my unfortunate move from this place, the more I wonder how I got that way. To illustrate how bad things used to be, whenever I removed cellophane wrappers from something, I kept them. This was decades ago. I have no idea why I was doing that, but I'd keep them. Do you remember those annoying stickers on CDs? I kept those, too. I don't know why. I just did. I finally came to my senses and threw that shit out, but the compulsive hoarder in me is still there, lurking. Waiting to save everything.
As I'm going through my shit, I find myself baffled as to why I kept some of it. It's just crazy to me. There's no way I would have a use for some of this stuff. Ever. But I don't want to throw it out. I'm forcing myself to do it, but my soul resists every attempt.
I think I can trace it back to when I was a kid. I remember driving with my mom in her blue Mustang. This must have been around '83 or so. We used to drive around a lot, and the windows were always down. I had this cupholder that you'd slide a tab into the rubber gasket for the passenger window. I'd constantly have a drink there, usually Coke. One day I reached for the can and accidentally hit the bottom of the cupholder, sending it flying out the window. I was horrified. I tried to get my mom to stop the car so we could go back for it, and she wouldn't do it. "It's only a cupholder," she told me. "We can get another one."
Five-year-old me tried to tell her that it wouldn't be the same because the new one wouldn't be MINE.
Fast forward a few years, and I was playing baseball with others. I had a ball given to me by my dad's parents, and we were using that. Someone hit a pop up that went into the woods, and we couldn't find the ball. I freaked out because dammit, that was my ball. Given to me as a gift, no less. I couldn't lose it. That's crazy. I scoured the area looking for it while the others knew to give up. Besides, no ball meant no more game. I couldn't accept that until my mom's parents found me and dragged me home.
So whatever this urge is, it's been there a long time. And I really need to get over it right now. I can't take everything with me when I leave this place. I have my stuff prioritized. Books are the most important and can't be abandoned. (That includes comic books.) Movies and music comes next. Stuff that might be valuable comes after that, but I'm probably going to sell that stuff. Childhood playthings are last, as I can't let that shit go yet. I'm 44, so I doubt I'll ever play with my Transformers or GI Joes ever again, but this part of me refuses to let it go.
At least I don't have a giant box full of ripped cellophane wrappers to pack up.
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