I'm officially not calling this an essay. More a rant. And going with last weeks topic.
I'm a rebel like that.
My big Thing that Gets Out of Control is the stuff. My apartment, oh the clutter. And oh the apathy. It's a dichotomy in my head. Part of my brain doesn't give a crap. It lets the boxes sit, the dishes rot, and the shower mold. The other half stresses about it, all the time. It imagines taking the random items, moving them to proper places. It envisions the hairs that wander to corners in the breeze of passing feet being swept up and thrown away, with the dust bunnies that use them as a makeshift skeletal system. I'd say that 45% of my brainpower is devoted to thinking "I should be cleaning." In a way it makes it worse. I have cleaning performance anxiety.
I have a weird attachment to items, and I suppose it's a form of environmentalism, combined with a peculiar overanalyzing. I can't get rid of anything without thinking to myself "but maybe I could use this..." I definitely can't throw anything away that could be potentially recycled. I get it from my grandfather. He was the biggest hoarder penny pincher jimmy-rigger since the Great Depression. After he passed away, multitudes of boxes went to the dumpster of random items that he would pull from the trash my grandmother tried to sneak out.
Old perfume samples, he used them to "keep the bugs away" when he was mowing. Any scrap of wood from any house project that ever took place. I'm not sure what he planned to do with a three inch block of oak, but he saved it. The same went for purposeless metal pieces, springs and sprockets, screws and rusted steel bits. He had them separated into little paper bags, folded open for easy access, arranged on the top of a crap-holding-extravaganza, aka, wide cabinet. Further into the basement, well organized but useless, you could encounter canned food that was neatly labeled back into the seventies before I was born. Every appliance in the house was sprouting raveling wires, sometimes stripped and patched with electrical tape, sometimes hazardously clinging without any insulation. I'm not sure how he managed to keep from burning the house down at some point.
I'm trying to overcome my pack rat tendencies. Last Tuesday I took a truckload of toys and miscellany to Goodwill, and I'm sure I have many unsorted boxes more of Things that I Don't Need, crammed into my two-bedroom apartment, and slowly causing my sanity to ooze out and collect in the corners with the dust bunnies. It's easier when it's thoroughly cleaned to keep it here. It's when it stacks and piles and, well, gets out of control that apathy and entropy start to overwhelm all good sense and motivation.
I wish I could print reports on my junk as to the usefulness, as I can at work to reduce inventory. (Which is another reason perhaps I'm so unmotivated to tackle my own nest, because I spend my days trying to clear the shelves at work, which with feedback may perhaps be me taking out my helplessness to cope with my personal mess, out on my workplace.)