Hoarding Feelings and Junk as a Borderline

Surprisingly, it took me a while to figure out why my home - particularly my room - was slowly becoming a more suffocating space to live in. Self-care of any kind tends to go out the window when I'm excessively depressed (of which the curtains never move, as I despise natural sunlight, because that equates to the outside) and so the space begins to represent a miniature landfill site. It isn't strewn with litter, no. I have some empty jars I clean out and keep, because I could use them for something, surely, but besides that there isn't much actual 'trash'. 

Rather, I end up with a collection of sentimental artifacts which should technically go in the bin, but I can't bare to part with them. A lot of it is scrap bits of pretty wrapping paper, cutouts and posters. They form various gargantuan piles. I could use them for art, art I will never create. Alongside these are papers from university, namely some poetry I felt the need to hold onto, or some old philosophical essays I probably won't read again but I enjoyed it so much I must hold onto it. Books I buy, read once, and never again, sit on my bookshelf. I can't read them again because it hurts too much. Feelings infiltrate every page and I want to avoid them. Avoidance is key when it comes to emotions, because apparently pretending something doesn't exist makes everything better. (Newsflash: it doesn't.) 

Once again, all of my suppressed feelings were manifesting in the form of junk. Everything I wanted to avoid (for the time being) was being put aside neatly, into its own particular pile, and left to collect dust. There was plenty of dust when I sorted through these piles yesterday. I end up feeling grimy and dirty and tainted after these explorations, and I despise the process immensely. I have to fight the compulsive urge to scrub my skin raw afterwards. A shower will suffice, I assure myself. I don't need to rip my skin off. I'll survive. But what about the old memories and feelings tainting my mind now? What do I do about them? I have to let go. I have to remove it all. I have to remove every last scrap of this junk and mentally remove any and all connections with them from my mind. 

Throughout the year I have to force myself to face this shit and throw it out. I don't like throwing things out, but obsessively hoarding feelings and junk doesn't do me any favours. In order to attempt to remove myself from the reoccuring slump of depression, I have to clean my room. It's as simple as that.

Only, it sounds simpler than it is. I still remember the bags of clothes I parted with years ago, I remember where I dropped them off for donation. I'm in between regret and relief. Mostly regret. I spend money impulsively, so I end up with a lot of materialistic trash I don't really need. I've been working on this; I've truly been trying to limit my spending and not buy more clothes, shoes, skincare, art supplies, etc. I binned a lot of old products yesterday, including several empty jars I was desperate to keep for some unknown reason, and it does feel better. I do feel a bit lighter in myself, as I can think more clearly. The fog does clear up a bit. 

I remember collecting daily newspapers.I would get them in the morning on my way to sixth-form, read them cover to cover, and take them home. If I happened to have been driven to sixth-form instead of taking the train, I'd rush to the station during my break to get a newspaper. Missing a paper would feel detrimental. I would stuff these newspapers into my wardrobe (which was already overflowing) and there they would sit, serving no purpose whatsoever. I'd never read them again, let alone look at them, but I needed them. The tears, anger and shouting matches when my dad forced me to throw them out were intense, believe me. I had no identifiable reason to hold onto them, but removing them (when I wasn't ready) was an attack on me. It still bothers me that they're gone, it's this dull ache in my chest. Sitting here thinking about them right now has made me sad. 

School books have always been near impossible to remove. I hate reading through them, but I did yesterday. The torrent of emotion was unavoidable. I felt the sadness wash over me in waves as I read over notes, remembering when and where and who and why. The shock was like plunging my head into cold water. My chest tightens, my heart aches and my lungs feel like they're seizing. A Borderline looking through sentimental junk is emotionally heavy and dangerous. Cue a migraine from overthinking and overfeeling. 

Yesterday, I tore several old school books apart. I removed the covers, ripping them to shreds, and tore pages out in tandem. It wasn't cathartic to be honest, and the sound of tearing paper apart is fucking grating. Removing them from my room, my home, though, was incredibly cathartic. I knew they were gone, away from me, and I knew they weren't lurking in my room and therefore in the back of my mind, like a grey cloud hovering, following me everywhere. Those memories and feelings have a much better chance of disappearing from my mind now. 

I have to do this repeatedly every year. If I didn't, I would indeed suffocate in the mess of feelings and junk. I know I could never live as a minimalist, that's unrealistic for me to consider. On the other hand, I don't need to give into my hoarder tendencies. I don't need to obsess over things I'll never use again, I don't need to apply meaning to what is already dead. It's a waste of space, both literally and figuratively, to hold onto these things that no longer serve a purpose.

The cycle prevails, nonetheless. The obsessive and emotional sides of me exist and I can't fight this out, but I can make my life more manageable at least. It truly helps to clean out your living spaces and whilst it isn't a cure for those dismal feelings clouding our minds, it sure makes it easier to think more clearly.

Zack