I’m sure the image of me sitting around with harsh black eyeliner lining my eyes inexpertly while listening to (insert something more emo than The Cure here. Help a stupid sister out.) and cutting my arm while hoping like hell it gives me attention (this is actually the mental picture I have associated with the diagnosis of “depression,” which is why I use the PPD initials instead when referring to my current issues. Makes me feel less like a dramatic teenager), it was just not the case today.
Rather than sit around wallowing in my grief, I was overtaken by the intense urge to purge.
To be fair, this is something I typically do every couple of months, but to completely illustrate how un-me I’ve been, I’m going to confess to you, Darling Internet, that it’s been over a year since my last purge (of my own stuff). I hope you understand, baby, I’ve just been unwell. No baby, it’s not you, it’s me. Really, it is.
Since I live with two people who are unable to part with so much as a four-year old Target receipt for a plastic garbage can that we no longer own, I am completely responsible for making certain we don’t save such stuff. Last year found me tossing rudely away The Daver’s collection of cassette tapes because we no longer own a tape player, and empty CD cases (why we lugged them from apartment to condo to house, I cannot be sure).
(I move it to the garage where it sits until I insist that we drop it off at the Salvation Army down the street. It does, I admit, sit there for many
days erm, months. Ashley keeps threatening to leave a pee-stained mattress propped up against my garage to really give my home that Salvation Army Drop Center look. She’s a funny one, that Ashley.)
So today, I tasked myself unceremoniously with purging my closet. This is a more depressing task than one might think, as I am currently too large for my pre-pregnancy stuff and too small for my maternity
tents clothes (thank you, Baby Jesus, thank you).
And without really delving into my cadre of un-fat clothes, I was able to get rid of three bags of clothes and another bag full of miscellaneous stuff that I have never found a use for but saved in case I suddenly needed about 500 mini packages of off brand tissues (um, I have no idea why people insist upon giving these to me. Do I constantly walk around with bats in the ole batcave? I am sure there are less oblique ways to inform me of this.) or the tags for clothes I’ve been wearing for months (which is pure laziness rather than deliberate ‘I might need this-ness’).
For some reason, getting rid of stuff gives me a high like no other (aside from Vicodin. Mmmmm Vicodin, how I love thee…let me count the ways….one, two, three…). I don’t pretend to understand why I feel so gooshy and elated when I’m getting rid of something and becoming more organized, but it never fails to bring me to near-orgasm.
I have a deep seated fear of becoming that person who lives so incredibly surrounded by crap that my kids are horrified and disgusted to come to my home, for fear of being attacked by a toppling box-o-junk and buried there for the next several years.
I think I might be severely twisted.
(The Internet is letting out a collective “You think?”)