Today I was trapped in my bedroom while the maintenance man fixed the outlet that recently had flames coming out of it. As I sat there, I realized that all I could think about was "what does he think of my apartment?" I had gotten up two hours early just to make sure that I could finish cleaning it for him. Lacking the actual two weeks it would take me to really get rid of all my chaos, I strategically shoved it where I was pretty sure he wasn't going to look. However, who knows if there is some weird electrical panel (that I am completely unaware of) hidden behind the one door where all my craziness will fall out.
When I was younger I was rather messy. Make that extraordinarily messy. I think this is because I have an innate propensity to become a hoarder. I always had a real problem getting rid of anything. Mostly because I felt sorry for it. I truly felt that all my possessions had feelings and they would be really hurt if I discarded them. Not just stuffed animals and cute things either- everything. It was a burden really.
Organizing all my shit was a nightmare. Not just because there was so much of it, but because I would get so distracted with each item that it would take me 12 hours just to organize my sticker collection. Additionally, as soon as I "cleaned" my room, I couldn't remember where anything was which was colossally annoying to me because I could picture its original position perfectly.
I loved all my stuff. I really did. I liked having it and going through it. It really made me happy and I didn't understand the need to put it all away neatly. It was there ready for me and it seemed reasonable to just leave it wherever I wanted. Besides I had better things to do. As if writing really important love letters to Ricky Schroeder could wait. Please.
As I got older I realized that people judge you by that kind of thing. They associate you with being dirty or lazy or even a little crazy. Since I didn't want to be someone who never had anyone over to my house or (heaven forbid) a boy stopped by unexpectedly, I made it a point to curb it. I'm aware that it isn't an impressive party trick to reach into your very own heaping landfill and pull out the one thing someone asked for.
Living with someone helps me hold the hoarder mirror up to myself. It is a cold hard reality check when someone helps you move and they ask why they just carried two garbage bags of TV Guides up three flights of stairs. Turns out "because I haven't read them yet" isn't a compelling answer.
To this day I still struggle to wrangle it. I employ filing cabinets with folders, desktop boxes, a desk that closes up. I have containers that contain chaos so that I may give the appearance of calm organization. But I know the truth. I'm an Oprah episode waiting to happen.
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