I have never felt so uncomfortable in a place that was supposed to be my own home.
I live in an apartment, not a house that I worked to be able to afford.
The apartment is "clean" and uncluttered, which means, all my stuff is gone and in storage.
My stuff doesn't define me, but it's a part of me. To put it into storage, is to lock up a whole part of who I am.
I don't like this at all, and I am not happy.
It's funny though because through others eyes:
Everyone has a bed to sleep on that they like [but me].
Everyone has their own space [but me].
Everyone loves how the place looks [but me].
Everyone has a place to work or study [but me].
My whole life has been surrounded by boxes and clutter. Most would call that hoarding, but my family called it, living. And the thing is, it never looked like hoarding, until you went into our rooms or a specific room in the house.
My grandma (ma): the second room/her room
" "(pa): Her business location
My grandpa(pa): His office
My great-grands(ma): the garage and the den.
I always loved playing and exploring in these places, because to me there was always treasure to find in the form of memories, new things, and secrets.
The thing is, none of those places, to me, were dirty, except for the places that were supposed be like garages and work areas. They had a system, they had a way about them, yes they were cluttered, but the owners knew where everything was and what everything was somewhere in their mind. But the most important factor was that NO ONE IN MY FAMILY COULD DEAL WITH BUGS, CRITTERS, [and most humans].
Therefore, On my Mom's side of things, there was clutter, but that's really it. If an unwanted visitor showed up everything was immediately organized, cleaned, and prayed down with cleaners and bug spray.
On my Dad's side, there were usually spiders, but anything beyond that resulted in something short of blowing the house up.
My Grand and Great Grands had spiders, dogs, snd stray cats do there dirty work for them; and kept the main living areas spotless, and there personal spaces adequate.
Now there is me, as a kid, roaming around these houses and spaces (which incorporated my own space/stuff usually) finding comfort in these places and things, transformed into an adult that did the same.
Fast forward to me today, living with a partner, and their kids, where my stuff is not safe nor wanted by anyone one but me. Where, after many arguments, fights, and some emotional abuse my stuff is now in locked away, away from me. And I feel alone, uncomfortable, unsafe, and and instable.
But apparently, this is healthy. This is healthy living. Not being happy with your environment. Not having literally everything you need to create and do what you want. Not having the ability to lend or give things to yours friends that they may need at any moment. Not to be surrounded by love, memories, and treasures. Not having all of that is apparently happiness and healthiness.
My family is a one of at least certifiable geniuses, engineers/inventors, entrepreneurs, and creators that value possessions , and as a Black Family, it's rare that we have so many in the first place. We value gifts, time spent, and acts of service. So think of my things, as a warm hug from my family. I may be in another state, but with my stuff, I am close to them.
Some people may think that this is such a 1st world or privileged problem to have. Well, they are probably right. But it doesn't make it an non-existent or less of a problem.
gummygunk
izzy806
pixelskylines
jacobvanloon
areudirty
