My name is __________, and I am a hoarder

I keep everything.

And I mean everything.

From letters to dog calendars to clothes I haven't worn in years but have convinced myself I will fit into again one day.

I keep everything.

Currently, we're renting. Waiting to move into our "forever home". (Read: Where we'll live until I decide I don't like how the shower drain is situated, at which time we'll be on our way again.)

And because we're renting, we've downsized a bit.

Quite a lot, actually.

We used to live in a three-bedroom, two-floor condo. About 2000 square feet of space.

We now live in a two-bedroom, single-floor apartment.

About 50 square feet of space.

So, as you can imagine, we "got rid" of a lot of stuff.

This stuff is currently waiting for us in a storage space, where we're paying monthly for it to live.

And what we've learned in the past few months of living here, in our closet, is that we don't need all that stuff.

We're living every day without my high school yearbooks. And my old business cards. And the bike I bought and rode four times (but it has white wall tires and coaster brakes!).

My husband keeps gently suggesting we go through said storage space and get rid of most of the stuff. For real.

But how can I get rid of the napkin that my daughter first doodled on, in the restaurant I can't remember, and on a day I can't recall?

He is a cruel, cruel man to want to do this to me. I should have seen his selfish, egotistical tendencies years ago.

But I can kind of see his point.

We're essentially renting an apartment for all this stuff. We're paying monthly for it to sit in a heated box that might actually be bigger than our apartment.

I know we need to get rid of most of it. I need to go through it all. See what I need and what I don't.

It'll take months.

I'll read every letter.

I'll try on every t-shirt.

I'll examine every single plate, cup and spoon.

But it has to be done.

Because otherwise, we'll be saving all this stuff...for what?

For our daughter?

What will she do with my leather pants? (shut up)

But somehow, I just can't let it go.

I'm sure my therapist would tell me it's because I was a latchkey kid and I've never felt I belonged and I'm a middle child.

She might be right.

But I think, despite what I portray to the outside world, I just might...

...have feelings.

I am nostalgic.

I miss things.

Like high school.

And college.

And going on weeks-long roadtrips.

And all that stuff, those boxes and bags and suitcases piled on top of each other about two miles from here?

Those are my memories of the things I desperately miss.

I know I have kept those memories.

And I know that the baseball cap that I picked up at Wall Drug is not ever going to sit atop my head again.

But when I see that hat, I always think, "That was such a great trip."

And I just can't let it go.

This ugly, worn out cap...

...is somehow holding me hostage.

I need to break free.

I know I can't go home again.

But I can go back to my storage space, can't I?

A time is coming when I'll have to face that wall of boxes.

My 10'x10'x8' scrapbook.

And I'll have to remind myself that just because the physical evidence is gone, doesn't mean I won't remember.

I don't know if I can do it.

But I guess I'd rather send my daughter to college than pay rent for these boxes for the rest of my life.

I'll get there.

One day I'll be the kind of person that travels light.

(But comes back with extra baggage.)