The stuff that buries you alive

I own a lot of things.  I mean, a comically huge plethora of stuff.  I always thought it was funny, that I was such a pack rat.  Reading Gary Chapman's "The Five Love Languages" it is clear "Gifts" is my main love language.  It means something when someone gives me something.  I associate a memory to the item and every time I see the gift it reminds me how that person loves me and thought of me.

My Grandfather passed away last year and since then my Aunts and Grandma have devoted hours and felt great stress over getting rid of all kinds of things my Grandma and Grandpa kept for years.  I don't understand because I've never dealt with it directly but watching how much time they spend agonizing over where to send certain things, who needs to take what, I always wonder why they don't just ship it all off to Goodwill or hire movers to come take everything away to donate to people who really need it.  I think that everyone associates significance with things and also with space.

I lived with someone who was controlling and passive aggressive over space and stuff.  He constantly bought items to fill his house and then would grow irrationally angry over the clutter that was everywhere.
When I finally moved out of that house all I wanted to do was get rid of all my stuff.  It was all such a burden. It was the reason I'd stayed longer than I should have wanting to find a way to take all my stuff with me when I left.

Even after giving away countless bags and boxes of things to friends and the Arc I still have so much stuff.  If I leave something in a room my Aunt doesn't think it should be in I will find that she has moved it somewhere. The house is slowly depleting in items until sometime very soon there will be nothing left.  And everyone will celebrate that they succeeded in removing all the junk that cluttered and then when everything's gone and the house is gone and Grandma is gone they will be sad that nothing is there.

People suffer from chronic dissatisfaction.  It is toxic and contagious and I despise being around it.  Nothing is good enough, nothing is quite right, there's more to be done and why do we still have this and we need a new one of those and so on and so forth.

If I never kept anything I could be out of everyone's way and be no bother at all and maybe I'd be left alone.
And maybe the passive aggressive controlling misers would think I needed stuff and start giving me things because I didn't have them.  And then they'd fume when I left my cup on their side of the counter.

I think Mr.Indecisive had it down.  He owned so few possessions that he could fit it all neatly in his car.
It makes an escape that much easier to make.

Hats off to you, Alaska.
My beautiful things are killing me slowly.