And it's not even squalor

I don't understand how people can live in squalor.

I can say I've had friends and relatives who have had hoarding tendencies. They buy too many things in bulk, or they begin new hobbies or projects that they never finish, and because they don't make room to store all the stuff, it collects in every corner in the house. And along the walls. And on the furniture.

That was the topic of one of the first blog posts I wrote (but never got around to publishing): the problem of buying things with good intentions, even frugal intentions (such as buying in bulk) but having the cost far outweigh the benefit when the stuff accumulates all over the house.

If I lived like that, it would be like hearing a million voices inside my head all day long that I would be powerless to quiet down. I'd look around at all the stuff constantly, compulsively, thinking of ways to dispense of it, organize it, use it, or sell it. It would consume me.

I know this, because back in college when I used to rent older apartments that needed work, I could sit in any room and be powerless against thinking, "If I owned the place, I'd replace that molding. And take down that peeling wallpaper. And replace those old blinds. And get new doors. And refinish the floors. And replace that faucet." There is always an imperfection that I yearn to perfect. So I know that if I were surrounded by piles of junk, I would drown in it.

So this past weekend when I had to temporarily move the contents of my basement into my dining room and den so that some waterproofing construction could be done this week, well, it sent me into a deep depression. By the end of the weekend, I was beginning to question what it was all for. And I'm not simply referring to the stuff in the basement, or the waterproofing job.

This is my idea of comfortable living. My living room at Christmastime:


Ahhhhh. See that? Small, but livable. Pretty minimal furnishings. Clean. No "stuff". (Actually, that bin of wrapping paper on the chair at left was bugging the hell out of me at the time. But my wrapping wasn't finished yet.)

Now look at that what that chair looks like today:


Now let's turn the corner and look into the dining room, and through the dining room and the den, all the way to the back of the house:


That little available opening in each doorway? Can you imagine a tall woman and two greyhounds making safe passage through there, several times a day? It's a wonder that my sensitive girl Dazzle isn't peeing all over the house. She does not enjoy big "stuff" and close quarters.

It is very, very hard for me to live like this. My dad questioned why I put this job off until the last minute like I did (I spent the weekend moving all this stuff, plus tearing down some walls in the basement, so the contractors could work this week), and my answer was that if I could do it all again, I'd do it exactly the same way. Because if I started the work any earlier, I'd have to live like this for even longer.

I'm not even a neat freak. I like keeping things clutter-free, but "stuff" builds up in my house, too. I certainly don't keep the bathrooms as clean as anybody would like. And I'm not claustrophobic, either, yet I feel the weight of life itself suffocating me when I walk through those rooms.

So what's the solution? Well, when the work is finished in the basement and the new concrete is dry, I can move it all back down. But I plan to do some organizing first. I do have too much stuff. (The first 12 bins behind the chair in the photos contain nothing but Christmas decorations. But that's stuff I plan to keep.)

But I am embarrassed to admit that two of the largest bins I own, the kind that are about 2' x 2' x 4' (roughly, without measuring), are full of stuffed animals. There is an additional tall kitchen bag full of them, too. Some of these stuffed toys are 36 years old. How does a compulsive never-hoarder let something like this happen, you ask? I think it must be sentiment. When I haven't seen them in a while I fantasize about dumping them all on my curb without looking back. But then I open a bin, and I remember their stories. And the innocence of childhood, long gone. Holding on to them helps me hang on to nice memories, and maybe hang on to a little bit of that innocence.

But it also drives me stark raving mad.

So then I think about just donating them to the same charitable organization that picks up the rest of my junk (they take anything) and delude myself into thinking that they'll actually be loved by another child. But they'll probably throw them straight into the trash. I think my particular charitable organization mainly sells the donations they receive. Stuffed animals aren't worth a thing, except the memories that come with them. And memories can't be traded for cash money.

There are a couple other boxes of stuff that should probably be discarded straight away. And there are some clothes and old magazines I can give away. In the end, there really isn't much I can discard out of hand. I do have many hobbies that I engage in often enough that supply storage is warranted.

One good thing is that this episode has already forced me to start getting organized. I ripped out some old, rickety shelving, purchased over $700 worth of new shelving, and have already filled most of it neatly. I've decided to discard a huge, heavy old workbench that came with the house (which I never use; I do that kind of work outdoors) which will free up an entire corner that I can use for more organized storage. I may have felt utter despair on Sunday night, but now that I've gotten out of the house a bit and my head is clear, I can see that all of this pain will be for good in the end.

I just hope all that crap doesn't fall over on any of us before the job is finished.