Box after box just piled high in the corner of the garage. Handling them they felt just a touch damp, cold and soft even though the garage doesn’t leak. They just seemed a little neglected. I have plenty of reasons that I can say they haven’t just sat there for the decade or so since I moved in, one reason was half of them were in the shed, until that almost fell down some years later after a storm, that and a mouse getting in there and so eventually moving my junk to the garage.
Hoarder, small hoarder, more like Monica from Friends hiding things away in the cupboard to keep the rest of the house tidy and less so than a hoarder with piled high newspapers in the house that have to be navigated by compass, climbing boots and belaying equipment. But enough that it has to go — somewhere.
I had to go to the hardware store to buy some ladders to allow me to push most of this stuff into the loft. It might sound like hiding hoarded junk away but it will allow me to see the space it will create and to judge how much better I will feel for that space. Once that time comes I’ll be able to get a box down, one at a time, and sort through and recycle whatever I can. It’s a method that any hoarder, minor or extreme, will need to get through and accomplish the goal, to clear space and to let go.
The hardware store with long isles piled to the ceiling was populated by married couples sheepishly browsing things that will make their home feel better and execute some new year resolution plan, and men pushing large trolleys and loading up things that can be sawn, drilled or hammered. Nothing gets more manly than bashing things into position and having tools with features, accurate numbers and power. The look on their face is usually one of being on a mission and purpose, though secretly disguising huge satisfaction that they’re about to build something; and, if they’re lucky that the job requires it, get to use a drill which is the nearest thing to being Clint Eastwood in Western Europe. That’s not to say women don’t get the same satisfaction from DIY but for men it’s a rite of passage.
I must admit, born with testosterone running through my veins, I have probably succumbed to that at some point but with ladders under my arm and some bits and bobs I was heading to the checkout. There was no browsing the cement isle trying to think of an excuse to buy some. I would leave that to the men.
The problem I have with sorting hoarded boxes of my past is I have to do it at the right time, when I’m not low, tired or feeling nostalgic. If I’m not in the right state of mind I can become emotional about the things I’m clearing and deciding whether to bin can become painful. Quite simply anything could trigger it and these days when I know it’s triggered I stop and finish for the day.
I stop when emotional because it’s not the junk that’s important but the memories those items hold. More powerful than any relationship break up. They hold grief. Every time I pull an old toy from my childhood it’s as powerful as if I were to see a relative that had long since departed, just for moment, before being taken away again. It’s a resurrection, a ghost, no matter how pleasant the memory, in fact the more meaningful it is the more powerful and emotive it will be. If it were bad memories it would hit the wheelie bin immediately. The memories make me grieve for my childhood and for the lost moments. Some of these things I can even remember when they were given to me, whether it was a birthday present, Christmas present or just a kind gift. This makes changing my gender identity, in the eyes of others, more difficult than it already is.
But at the same time I am already different. I’m an adult, more mature (some might say), I have found more of myself and expressed it. If I wasn’t that different then I wouldn’t be grieving and feeling emotional at the sight of things that, to anyone else, are simply junk but to me more valuable than any precious metal. If I hadn’t changed and left those things behind they would still be just the things I own and not these items in a grave yard of memories in the back of a cold garage. Yet despite their emotional value they aren’t kept in exquisite condition in air tight, dirt-tight containers in a regulated temperature away from anything harmful. They’re just piled into cold boxes.
I must cut down on things. Some things will be thrown away once I find the point of view and positive reasons that will come to allow me to do so. They are the memory corpses that need to be buried, permanently, so they can no longer be resurrected and hopefully I can remember my memories through rose tints with the aid of photographs, memories and stories. I’ll be able to continue to move on and make my future my way without the guilt of the past. It’s one thing to tussle with the problems of gender identity but even harder when your past is a wall of boxes full of reminders.
Amongst the Christmas gifts I had this year was some scent free wipes in a packet. It was from my Mum knowing I like to use scent free soap for the most of the time and a thoughtful gift it was. Laying on the sofa I glanced at the coffee table. I spotted the packet still unopened and sat up and smiled at that little extra present with a lot of thought and something that would never end up in a box in storage. It was a gift for now, different to all the hoarded toys and teenage presents in the boxes I’d seen while clearing the hoard through the day. I held the pack and read the smaller print on the label ‘cleaning facial wipes’ and underneath, ‘removes waterproof mascara.’ Well, I guess my gifts as an adult take on a whole new meaning.
Until next time.