What to keep and what to throw away: that is the million dollar question! I've been cleaning out my basement for the PAST FIVE YEARS. Or rather, I've been talking about cleaning it out, thinking about it, dreading walking down the basement steps and facing that pile in the middle of the floor. Terrified of opening the door to the storage closet, home to boxes that followed me here, 26 years ago, from my previous residence and failed marriage! Yeah, it's that bad.
But I've gotten on my own case recently -- gave myself a good talking to, even discussed it with a Life Coach. So now I'm whittling away at it, bit by bit. Trouble is, I spend hours down there--hunched over my little personal shredder. Until I can't take the constant jamming/overheating and wind up carting bags of paper over to Staples, coughing up the dollars to say good riddance to what I should've never saved in the first place. I have a moment of elation after each working session or trip to the shredding bins, but somehow, on my next descent into the basement, the pile never seems to have dwindled.
And here's the rub: the utility bills, medical records, bank statements, etc. hold no heat; I'm thrilled watching them become confetti! But the bins in the middle of the floor contain my Mom and Dad (not really; they've passed over, but you know what I mean), my son's preschool career (he's now 36); my own college life, early romances, even diaries, old photos of Christmas and summer vacations when I was a kid. Pieces of myself and those I have loved. Just thinking about it now, my eyes fill with tears and my heart aches.
I'll pinpoint the unwanted household items and donate them, cart the obsolete electronics to the proper dump, toss the used binders and folders in the trash.
But the old bible her great grandmother gave my mom at the time of her birth? NO WAY. The deed to the house I grew up in? I don't think so. The Mothers Day gift my son made for me in pre-school when he was four? Can't do it. Photos of my first dance recital....not happening, not now at least. Not yet.
— DMRS
But I've gotten on my own case recently -- gave myself a good talking to, even discussed it with a Life Coach. So now I'm whittling away at it, bit by bit. Trouble is, I spend hours down there--hunched over my little personal shredder. Until I can't take the constant jamming/overheating and wind up carting bags of paper over to Staples, coughing up the dollars to say good riddance to what I should've never saved in the first place. I have a moment of elation after each working session or trip to the shredding bins, but somehow, on my next descent into the basement, the pile never seems to have dwindled.
And here's the rub: the utility bills, medical records, bank statements, etc. hold no heat; I'm thrilled watching them become confetti! But the bins in the middle of the floor contain my Mom and Dad (not really; they've passed over, but you know what I mean), my son's preschool career (he's now 36); my own college life, early romances, even diaries, old photos of Christmas and summer vacations when I was a kid. Pieces of myself and those I have loved. Just thinking about it now, my eyes fill with tears and my heart aches.
I'll pinpoint the unwanted household items and donate them, cart the obsolete electronics to the proper dump, toss the used binders and folders in the trash.
But the old bible her great grandmother gave my mom at the time of her birth? NO WAY. The deed to the house I grew up in? I don't think so. The Mothers Day gift my son made for me in pre-school when he was four? Can't do it. Photos of my first dance recital....not happening, not now at least. Not yet.
— DMRS
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