I'm Living At Home

I wouldn't call me a "hoarder".

"Hoarder" is a term that

refers to people who have such a debilitating disease that they cannot throw anything away, and end up living in their own filth. I don't even like baths. I love throwing things away. What I would call myself is a "sentimentalist." Things that have meaning and tell a story cannot be discarded. They hold a moment, an experience, an event and without the object maybe that special time will be lost.

Last night I started to cleanse. I started to cleanse the life I will lead as I live in the bedroom that I grew up in. And truly grew up in. Because we moved there in the 4th grade. The moments before 4th grade you are an androgynous character. Full of emotions and opinions but mostly shaped by those around you. So truly this house was where I started to mold myself, who I wanted to be. And what I wanted to be involved a lot of half started journals, incredibly ugly jewelry, and pictures, receipts, and programs from every place I went.

Throwing out some things were

easy. But I can't throw away letters. Any letters that people wrote to me, and I don't mean

greeting cards that just say "Happy Birthday, Love Mom and Dad." I'm talking about letters to camp, to school, apology letters (which I have IN ABUNDANCE).

Can I still be an adult if I treasure this

mementos?

No. I can't be.

And so I have chosen to never pass into adulthood. Consider it illegal to have relations with me. I will always be a child. And I will spend hours, countless hours, touching and reading these meaningless pieces of paper.

And I will not feel bad about it.