So CBG and I have embarked upon cleaning up our financial act. This is an exciting prospect for me, and I’m actually really looking forward to the whole process (as surprising as that might seem). As part of this whole “being responsible grown ups” directional move that we’re making, I’m also hell-bent on de-cluttering and getting rid of unwanted “stuff”. I sort of feel like less clutter goes hand-in-hand with living a more frugal lifestyle, since after all, “things” cost money, don’t they? Add to this the fact that our small house has been feeling even smaller lately, as the “stuff” piles up.
The worst is our basement storage area, known in our family as “The Pit of Despair”.
It’s a relatively small storage area, but it’s basically plugged with “stuff”. Now, some of it is legit — holiday decorations, out of season clothing, things like that. However, a great portion of it is not — including a number of boxes from when I moved into this house and just never dealt with.
(And for those of you keeping score, you’ll likely remember that it’s been over TWO YEARS since CBG and I moved into this new place together).
Yesterday I retreated to The Pit to spend some time down there, dealing with “stuff”. I vowed that I would deal with at least one box. When all was said and done, I’d effectively dealt with five of them. I ended up with some garbage, some things to donate, and actually very little that I wanted to continue storing. It’s amazing the things that I’ve continued to hang onto over the years that serve no useful purpose.
Among the things I pulled out were three old journals. Journals that I’d kept both during my marriage and during my early relationship with CBG. I began flipping through them, casually, stopping to read the occasional page or two here and there. And that’s when I realized something important: I am no longer the woman who wrote these words, all those years ago. That part of my life is behind me now, and by keeping those journals around, I was merely keeping unwanted reminders of those days. I realized that some day, when I’m no longer on this earth, I wouldn’t want anyone reading through what I’d written — much of it very private thoughts and feelings. I would never want those words to be someone’s impression of who I am.
So I brought those journals up out of the pit, and without going down the rabbit hole (i.e. reading through them all), I destroyed them. I have no need to keep reminders of those parts of my life with me. I’m not that person anymore, and the last thing I need are those old ghosts haunting me.
I feel lighter already.