Conquering My Home, One Room at a Time

Hmm, maybe "conquering" is too strong of a word.  How about "taming"?  "Domesticating"? 

Anyway, I've always been a clutter bug.  My school desk or locker was often alarming.  My family witnessed me sleeping on a bed half covered with possessions.  Doesn't everyone sleep with old school assignments, binders, rocks, stuffed animals, books, and dirty clothes?  Just my ten-year-old self?  Right...

I've been coming to terms with my near-hoarding tendencies.  And, yeah, that's a self-diagnosed term, but I read a book on hoarding, and while I don't have a home filled to the brim with everything I do have a lot of anxiety when it comes to chucking, well, anything.  And reading one book makes me an expert.

Besides, I believe I come from a short (maybe longer, but I only observed two generations) line of hoarders.  My paternal grandparents lived through the Great Depression and could never face going without again.  Therefore they saved everything.  I remember as a child going to help the entire extended family clear out my grandparents home and property because they had to move.  It was...disturbing.  You name it, they probably had it.  Piles stacked near the ceiling, trails to reach their rooms.  Their home was a fire trap and I'm grateful that things didn't end up that way.  They even kept their clutter with them, in any car they used or in bags hanging from my grandmother's wheelchair.  My grandmother was diabetic and they re-used her needles until they were blunt, and sometimes (if memory serves me right) sharpened them.  And (again, hopefully my memory is correct) they didn't really have a shortage of needles.  But there was always the pervasiveness of "not-having" due to their, well, not having during the Depression.

My father grew up in this "Must not waste!" environment.  Everything had it's uses and value.  What if he needed it someday and the store had run out?  What if he had no money?  Safer to save than to go without something important.  So my father collects every usable thing.  Multiple coffee cans filled with nuts, bolts, and other fasteners?  Check.  Car parts?  Check.  Fifty sets of skis?  Check.  An enormous garage filled with stuff?  Yup.  A vast amount of property with possessions strewn about?  You betcha.  So much saving and hoarding, anxiety and fear.  Fear of wasting.  Fear of not-having.

This angst over tossing things was passed onto me.  My dad would sometimes not even allows us to throw out something of ours.  To illustrate the point here is a pretty typical experience.  It was spring and the family decided to clear out some unneeded things.  Among all the objects that landed in the garbage bin was a little woven basket.  When my father came home from work he looked in the bin and pulled out this basket.  He came in the house and admonished us for throwing out something so useful.  "Who threw this away, this little basket?  I can't remember how many times I've heard someone needing a little basket, and here someone threw this away."  The basket was returned to the offender and is probably still packed away in their junk.

As a side note, if The Hubby or I are having a hard time deciding on our belongings, all one of us has to do is mention the little basket and it helps us get out of the rut of, "What if I need this someday!!??"  Useful phrase to have around.

My mother has a different kind of stockpiling situation.  She does hold onto things that have usefulness, but they are usually purchased items destined for a particular project or event.  However, my mother does seem to have issues with sentimentalism.  It's like she fears forgetting memories if she doesn't have a physical object to trace them.  After my wedding my mom gave me box after box of school work, art, notes, toys, and other items that were once in my ownership or created by me.  A lot of it was stored by me, but it was encouraged by my mother's questions, "Are you sure you want to get rid of that?  What if your kids would enjoy looking at it?  What if you want to remember *insert event here*?"  A different kind of fear, the fear of loss.  The fear of letting go of the past, of forgetting.  Of giving yourself permission to forget.

So, two different hoarding heritages, uniting in one person:  me.  I have a very hard time letting go of anything useful or sentimental.  Scraps of fabric?  I could use those!  Objects that bring back painful memories?  What if I forget the lessons involved?  Anything connected to my children?  What if they resent me for disposing of it?  Something of monetary value that I do not value?  I could sell that...someday.  Gifts given to me that aren't a good fit?  But they thought of me!  Tangible evidence!

Right.  I have so much stuff.  Junk.  Trash.  And it's kind of ironic that I own so much clutter, because when I think of my ideal home I imagine houses like these:

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Warm.  Airy.  Light.  Minimalistic to a large extent.  Uncluttered.  Roomy.  Only the necessary and beautiful things.  Only the things that elicit happy memories.  An embodiment of who I am, not who I was.  Focusing more on quality than quantity, and only keeping enough.  Being happy with less, realizing that having more actually makes me feel more stressed and anxious.

So I've been de-cluttering.  Many things make it to the local charity thrift shop.  Many things get tossed.  Some things were sold.  Many vital but currently unused items are being systematically stored.

I've found the process to be similar to a fever.  I have to contemplate a specific area, recently the coat closet.  I peek in it, assess the belongings, and ruminate.  I methodically examine each item in my mind, asking the pertinent questions:  Is this vital?  Is it beautiful?  Does it evoke happiness?  Do I already have one?  The internal agitation grows, roiling energy and anticipation through me until the fever breaks.  Instead of shivering and sweating I'm purging and organizing.  Ruthlessly.  I immediately take the trash out to the bin or recycling, the donate-able goods out to our bike trailer to drop off, and the items for deep storage into the garage.  Then I stand back and soak in the loveliness.  Space.  Breathing room.  Positive energy only.  I'm well again.  Until I find another spot that's ready for cleansing, and then I start all over.

I've done well.  And I'll be posting more about it in the future.  But for now I will tell you of my simple but astounding success.  And, again, those that know me best will understand why I consider this amazing.

With the help of BuggaBoo and Doozer we have cleaned BuggaBoo's room every night for a month.  A month.  It helped that we have partially gone through what we store in his room, throwing out or moving what doesn't belong and giving homes to the things that do.  I have been calmer knowing we will wake up to a cleaner space.  BuggaBoo and Doozer are happier knowing they'll have a place to play or escape as they need.  And I'm finding as these nightly cleanings become ritual I'm able to progress to other parts of the household.  It is too soon to proclaim it a habit yet, but the sink has been empty of dishes two nights in a row.  And those who really know me know how much I hate dishes.

The most amazing part to me was what ignited the transformation.  For years I've felt guilty for being a poor housekeeper.  I thought I was lazy, too distracted, not motherly enough.  I had felt judged and found wanting.  I had never grown up from my young self sleeping with my hoard.

It took me getting away from that to change.  The guilt didn't make me keep my house clean, it made me feel like a horrible person.  It was reenforcing my worthlessness.  It reminded me that I was lacking, not complete, not a person.  I had to realize that I am complete, exactly how I am today.  How clean my home is will not be a reflection on my worth.  My achievements are not me.  I am already whole. 

At the same time, for me to be able to let go of the object weighing me down, I have to give myself permission.  Permission to throw away useless things.  Permission to pass on useful things to others.  Permission to have faith in the availability of things.  Permission to forget.  Permission to give up potential.  Permission to appreciate people as they are now, not as they were.  Permission to enjoy moments instead of cataloging them.  Permission to grow and change.

Giving up my hoard is allowing me to change, to become a different person, because it will not anchor me in the past anymore.  Instead, I will fly.

Learning a Hard Thing

The other day The Hubby and I engaged in one of our favorite pastimes: scouring Goodwill for good deals. He found one, a movie titled "Baraka". We have been looking for this movie for years, so we snatched it up at the price of $5.00.

The best way to describe "Baraka" is it pulls you through the human experience. Somehow the images, locations, and music draws every emotion out. Many times I smiled and many times I cried. It is a very beautiful experience.

BuggaBoo asked to watch it with us (his aunt and me), and I let him. Oh, boy, does he ever ask questions! There is no speaking so there was nothing to explain it to him except me, and explain I did.

Near the middle of the movie there begins to be depictions of poverty, starting with slums in Brazil, moving to families picking through a garbage dump to glean any useful thing, and then to the homeless living on the streets of wealthy cities. My sister and I were crying at this point and BuggaBoo was becoming very upset. He kept asking what the people were doing, and I told him that they were poor and didn't have any home to live in. He didn't quite understand what that meant, how having money connected with having a home, but he could feel the anguish of it.

He told me, "My throat hurts, it really hurts, what does that mean?" I replied, "My throat hurts when I am very sad and wanting to cry, it hurts for me right now. It's okay to cry, it's sad that these people don't have homes." He just started bawling. And it was hard for me to see my baby so sad about this, my instincts being that my child should not be inconvenienced with painful emotions. But I was proud of him. Proud that he was not cynical, that he could empathize with those in need and want. That he could understand the very basic fact that people are people and deserve basic needs.

Was it wrong of me to expose him to this specific reality? I don't think so. We live near Portland, Oregon. There are an estimated 20,000 homeless people in the state, most of them concentrated in Portland. It is easy to tune them out, to hurry by. It can become easy to disdain them, to rationalize that they caused their situation, "You made your bed now sleep in it."

How many Americans are one paycheck away from losing their home (Psst -- One survey puts it at one-third)? How many Americans are lacking in sufficient health insurance in case of major hospital bills or mental health issues? How many of us are on the edge?

And even if we're in a good place, why does that give us license to look down on those others? For those who are Christianly minded, I'm reminded of the Prodigal Son. You know, left home, squandered his inheritance, lost his home and his friends, and ended up eating pig slop. He went home to see if his father would accept him back as a servant, and instead his father accepted him back as a son. Who was the one chastised? The older brother, displaying his feelings by demanding why he hadn't had a fatted lamb killed for him. The subtext, in my mind, is, "Why are we helping him? He made his own troubles."

For those that are Mormonly minded, I'm going to turn to the Book of Mormon now. It's one of my favorite passages, Mosiah 4: 16-18.

16 And also, ye yourselves will ^asuccor those that stand in need of your succor; ye will administer of your substance unto him that standeth in need; and ye will not suffer that the ^bbeggar putteth up his petition to you in vain, and turn him out to perish.

17 Perhaps thou shalt ^asay: The man has brought upon himself his misery; therefore I will stay my hand, and will not give unto him of my food, nor impart unto him of my substance that he may not suffer, for his punishments are just—

18 But I say unto you, O man, whosoever doeth this the same hath great cause to repent; and except he repenteth of that which he hath done he perisheth forever, and hath no interest in the kingdom of God.

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Whoa, that got all political and spiritual and such. I meant it to be a sweet testament to my son, and look where it ended up. I'm not sorry. It is something I feel so strongly about, that we are all people, that we all deserve basic rights, basic respect. Please, don't forget others that fall beneath our living standards. I believe we all knew this as children, what made us forget?

Insights During and After My Latest Therapy Session

Yay for insights that make sense!

I've been to seven or eight sessions of therapy so far. We're still laying down groundwork because I'm still trying to share everything that makes me tick and tic. I'm a pretty complicated person.

So let's visit my first insight, the one I gained during my session. My previous session The Hubby was with me and we were talking about my internet "problem". No, not that, unless what you're thinking about is spending too much time on the computer, and then you're right on the money. I am on the internet Way Too Much. The last two weeks or so I finally figured out that a big reason why I visit InternetLand so much is because it's one way I sooth my anxiety. But during my session I discovered a deeper, if slightly more pathetic, reason why I'm here all the time.To sufficiently understand what I'm about to reveal I need to give a lengthy explanation.

I'm a weird person. I've never felt like I've really fit in anywhere. My personal opinions vary widely from liberal to conservative. But I can't hang out with liberals because I'm conservative on key points, and I can't jive with conservatives because I'm freakishly liberal on others. I'm not moderate because I'm not super lukewarm about anything.

The best way I found how to explain it to my therapist was through outward expression of myself: fashion. One day I'll want to dress completely punk with ripped fishnets and black nail polish, the next I might want to be ultra conservative with a pencil skirt, and blouse, and cardigan. Yet later in the week I might be decked out in my beloved country-western garb complete with heavy turquoise jewelry. I'm sure many people I associate with choose one of those personalities as my main identity and believe the others are costumes I wear to amuse myself. The truth is they are all aspects of me, they are all my true self. But if you focus on just one of them then you'll miss out on most of me.

We then talked about my love for the, um, "out there" stuff. I love crazy hair colors. I think tattoos and body piercings are pretty cool. I can find beauty in all types, I am not wedded to one standard. I told her that I really fit in with the Portland scene and she agrees. But we talked about how I've had to repress a lot of that because it doesn't fit in with my main culture, Mormonism.

Basically I fear making friends because I have been burned often for who I am. I have had some people be very cruel to me, especially women who belong to my religion. I have very few friends I am mostly honest with, perhaps five. Out of the five people that I'm pretty-sure-I-can-trust-but-not-100%-sure-because-they-don't-know-100%-of-me only three live nearby. And I have one person who is not family that knows all of me and accepts me and that is The Hubby.

So this really does all tie into why I'm on the internet all the time. I belong to a lot of different groups online. Some are about natural living, some are about attachment parenting, some have political affiliations, and some are religious based. Not one of them fulfills me entirely. But together, that's a different story. All together these different forums and communities feed every aspect of me. And they are all found on The Internet. And the exact thing I told my therapist was, "I am friends with The Internet. That is so lame."

So, there it is. I'm so socially awkward in real life I turn towards a non-human entity because, A) I don't have many friends in real life because people don't want to be my friend and B) I'm afraid to reach out to real people anymore because I've been hurt so much.

So, if that wasn't enough realization for one day (And it wasn't the only insight I had during that session, just the biggest. Really, therapy is exhausting.) I had another on the bus going home. And, I'm sorry, it also needs an enormous backstory to make any sense.

Like I mentioned earlier The Hubby attended my session previous to the last. I wanted him there because I was doing to start delving into my aversion to housework. A phrase that kept coming from me was, "I just want to be taken care of." This prompted my therapist to ask me to explain my fantasy life. So I started into it.

It began with me sleeping in and not having to take care of the kids in the morning, not making breakfast, not cleaning because all that would be done for me. I said I would like to spend time with my children on my own terms. I started faltering at this point and said, "Man, this is all so selfish." She countered with, "Of course it is, it's your fantasy. Tell me more." So I continued a bit in the same theme.

My therapist then asked, "Do you want to be treated like a child? Is that what you need?" I vehemently countered, "No, I wanted to be respected, I want to be treated like an adult. I want people to respect my intellect and insights and feel like I have something to offer." So she said, "You want to be a queen?" And I said, "Yes, wait, no! I don't want all that responsibility. Well, I do want to take on responsibilities, but I want to choose when I do." And then I cried a lot because everything I want in life is so contradictory and not anything even logical.

I kept carrying on about how selfish and pathetic it all was. After I calmed down a bit my therapist (okay, saying "my therapist" all the time is super clunky, she's going to be Dr. L now) explained that having me truly discover what my fantasy is will help me discover what my deepest hurt is. Basically I think my fantasy life will fix everything, so we can look at it like a prescription. By using that prescription we can find out what the ailment is. Dr. L asked me to think more about my fantasy and see if that leads me to my wound.

So I thought and thought and thought. One thing that stood out to me was the question, "Do you want to be treated like a child?" and my angry response that I wanted to be respected like an adult. But I couldn't ignore that I wanted to be physically taken care of.

Then my first insight came. I tried to remember when I have ever felt like a child. Not in body but soul and mind. And I can't. I have always thought the way I do now. I may not have had the life experience to make 100% adult decisions as a child, but my thought process and logic have always been adult. This is something I've thought a lot about over the years, and every person I have surveyed about it agrees with me. No one has ever thought like a child. We have all been adults our entire lives.

That's what clicked it for me. I DID want to be treated like a child, but I wanted to be treated like a child that was also a person. I wanted to be treated like a child by a person that understood that children don't think like children but you have to care for and guide them like children. I wanted a parent. But why did I want a parent? And now I know why. This is what I wrote down on my bus ride home:

"Growing up in a home and religion where many of my feelings and experiences were invalidated I am now an adult that does not know how to trust and interpret my feelings and experiences. I don't know if my reactions are justified. I don't know if my perceptions are correct. I don't know if my action are right.

By suppressing most of my emotions my parents neglected to teach me which reactive emotions of mine are valid or excessive.

I am confused most of the time. I fear I overreact. I fear I underreact. I sometimes fear both at the same time. I don't know if people treat me well or poorly because I cannot trust my emotional reactions to their actions.

I feel like I need to seek out a wise person to re-parent me. Someone needs to teach me how to categorize my feelings. I don't know how to do it myself."

Basically I cannot trust my own reality. My parents treated most of my emotions as overreatctions. I know deep down that this is a lie, but I know that there is such a thing as overreaction. I never had the guidance to show me what a real overreaction is. The other side of that coin is because I was told most of my emotions were overreactions I don't know what an appropriate emotional response is.

A lot of my internal monologue goes something like this: "How that person treated makes me angry. Well, I don't know, maybe I should be angry about this. Maybe it's not as bad as I'm making it out to be. But what if it is, I'm really angry! I'm probably right, I should be angry about this. Well, maybe I should be more angry. Maybe outrage is the proper response. I don't know, I don't know. I should just drop it because I don't want to offend that person. But if they really did do something to offend me I should set a boundary with them. What if it's the wrong boundary? I just don't know what to do."

And so here is the kicker for me. Since I do not understand my own emotions I HAVE NO REALITY. There is nothing concrete about me, which probably contributes to my chameleon personality, but maybe it doesn't, but how do I know, but but but I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MYSELF. If I can't trust my emotions what I can I trust?

Welcome to the life of a victim of gaslighting. Have you heard of it? Well, here are three good essays explaining the gist of it. I had come across the term months ago and knew it applied to me, but not until two days ago did I realize the extent of the damage. Nor did I realize all of those who have knowingly or unknowingly perpetrated it on me. It is a sobering thought. I'm grateful I set my next session next week instead of two weeks away. With this last revelation I think I'm finally ready to get down to business.

If any part of this post has offended you I direct you towards my disclaimer.

Absence Makes My Heart Grow Heavy

I miss blogging. I miss pouring my soul onto the computer screen and having others share my life. I miss journaling my experiences so I can go back and read them and remember. I miss the sense of community that comes from weaving new friends from all over the world. I miss you guys.

I feel like I'm in a hard place. I have so much bubbling in me that wants to spew forth. I want to shout out my triumphs and terrors. But I am so very, very afraid of offending other people. Which sounds a little weird to me, because I'm really not afraid of speaking my mind, speaking the truth. I'm not afraid of hurting others' feelings.

I'm afraid of the repercussion from going down such a road. I fear that if I speak my mind, if I share my truth, and if it hurts someone, they will rain down judgement and guilt and anger on me. They will do everything in their power to bring me back into line to make their life more comfortable, no matter how it makes me feel. I feel those types of people will want me to suffer so they can stay in their happy place.

I do not believe that everyone who has done this to me knows exactly what they are doing. We are creatures that fear pain, and that fear of pain drives us to fix the situation. But sometimes we forget that change, even positive change, can hurt us. When I was a child I would get the worst cramps in my legs from growing. Growing pains are never fun. But I would never trade my physical growth to avoid that horrible physical pain. And so I think that those in my life that hurt me to end their hurt really don't understand what they do.

But even if they may not consciously realize they are trying to dominate my actions doesn't change the fact that they are doing just that.

I do not live in a fantasy world populated by cupcakes and unicorns. I don't expect everyone to agree with my world view. I don't expect others to never be offended by what I say. I don't expect people to not get angry if what I say angers them. I don't expect to be unchallenged in what I believe. I don't expect to not be called out if I'm being a bitch.

However, I want to say things that may expose a person's wrongdoings, or the wrongdoings of someone they fear. I may speak up for something in my life that has no bearing on another's life except to offend them. I will want to vent, to blow off some of my anxiety and work out my problems on "paper". I would like to be respected in these endeavors. I would like to be treated as someone who is working through major depression and anxiety. I would like to be handled with care. I want to be valued by who I am, not by my accomplishments or lack thereof. I want those that claim to love me to treat me with love.

Sometimes loving someone is not easy. Sometimes you have to hurt a person you love in order to help them grow. In love there is such thing as tact, but there is no such thing as never having conflict. People change, people grow, people rise, people fall. Those that love them see where they are coming from and help them on their journey.

Help me on my journey. Before you judge my future postings please try to see where I am coming from. If I bring you up specifically, please examine your own intents and actions before critiquing mine. When you disagree with or challenge me do so with love, not with the intent to lessen your own pain just because it hurts.

Please, do not smother me anymore. I can't take the silence, it makes my thoughts too loud. They scream at me. I have to let them out before forget who I am.

Turning Curses into Blessings

Summer is in full swing around here, which mean all of those lovely homesteading activities I fondly dreamed about are actually happening. My thoughts are not so fond now.

My internal monologue hit a swearing peak yesterday while my hair kept getting snagged in the twigs of our apple tree during thinning. As soon as I thought, "Man, why do we have SO MANY apples, I wish we had less," I knew I needed to shift my thinking or risk losing my sanity.

I could curse the fact that we had so many apples to thin out, and the future crop that will need preserving will be so large. Ditto the pears.

Or I can feel blessed because I'll have green apples just in time to make pectin for my raspberry jam. And I'm blessed to have new friends to share my apple crop with, making it manageable and blessing others. Also, how grateful I am to have future food assured and plenty of cool garage space to store fresh apples. Ditto the pears.

I could curse the fact that we planted so much garden this year it was hard to get to it all, and now all our greens are going to seed and turning bitter.

Or I can feel blessed for this opportunity to learn how to eat things out of my comfort zone. I'm grateful for fresh eggs from our hens and nitrate-free bacon from the store that makes eating greens more enjoyable. Also it's a joy to discover that some radishes bloom purple and feel excited for the seeds that are forming to preserve our heirlooms for next season. And now it's time to plant our fall crop, which is fabulous because here in the Pacific Northwest the best gardens are in fall.

I can curse the fact that because of all the things that need to be done I don't always have enough attention to devote to my kids.

Or I can feel blessed for this chance for my children to grow, for them to learn that they don't always need their mommy to play. They are finding joy in working with me (if I can look past the apples that Doozer unnecessarily thinned) and discovering that preserving the harvest can be fun and tasty. They are learning about priorities, and that there are other people in the world besides them. What a wonderful lesson!

In Genesis the Lord tells us that the ground was cursed for our sake. Well, I have learned something new today. A curse is just a blessing looked at from the wrong end. I am naturally a lazy person, so getting the initial gumption to start a new project is daunting. But there is so much joy in finishing it! Not just the first glow of success, but every time I grab another jar of blackberry jam or pull a homemade shirt over BuggaBoo's head or gather eggs from our well-built hen house I have continuing happiness and pride.

We are not a privileged family in the familiar sense, but when I look around me I see my world overflowing with blessings.