I tackled the other overstuffed living room chair this morning. This one was covered in paper clutter. Stuff I meant to file away, old pictures, old cards. I’m happy to report that I dealt with all the clutter on today’s pile, but it wasn’t easy. Lots of anxiety. Lots of memories associated with those dead tree scraps. Lots of regrets.
I don’t like the way I feel at this moment like my lungs are bound up in a ball. I should feel happy. I accomplished a goal. I finished what I started. But there were papers associated with funerals I’ve attended. Pictures of people who are no longer with us. Lots of would’ve/could’ve/should’ve in that pile. I found the paperwork for the condo we almost bought years ago, a home we couldn’t afford when my husband lost his job while we were going through the closing. Old check stubs. Christmas Cards signed by relatives who are now dead. As I was going through the other rooms of the house, purging unwanted items, every time I came across a piece of paper I wasn’t ready to deal with, I’d put it in a pile. Eventually, all the piles merged together and were placed on this chair. If I’d dealt with this stuff as it came to me, as it came into my life, I could have avoided this day. But I didn’t, so here I am, an anxiety-ridden mess.
I don’t know why I’m allowing theses negative feeling to take root in me. I took control of my life. If I keep going, my living room will be orderly in a matter of days. I deserve to have a home I can enjoy, a home where I don’t have to make a mad-cleaning-dash every time someone wants to stop by for a visit. I’ve purged our home of so much clutter, it would only take a few days to finish off what’s left.
But…that’s the problem.
The baskets, etc in the living room are filled with the stuff I didn’t want to deal with when I went through the rest of the house the first time around. It was easier to put anything I wasn’t ready to deal with aside in order to work on the bigger picture. The procrastinator in me thought this was an excellent strategy. It’s much easier to live in imaginary tomorrow-land, but eventually you run short on tomorrows. That’s where I feel like I’m at. I’m 496 months old today. I’d like to have something to show for my time here on the planet, not a living room filled with baskets of random objects.