[November 20, 2019; early morning]
Sometimes I panic a bit, when I realize how much stuff I have and how inadequate my display fixtures/areas are.
(This turned into a long-winded info-dump of ~feelings~, so it gets a cut.)
I’m tempted to hang a mesh hammock from the ceiling, at the rate I’m going. I need to get vertical with my storage. Maybe I could put a short shelving unit atop the folding table? Or maybe sorting will be easier without big things in the way (a large horse, fabric box for queenofsquids, bjd box for dollsahoy, etc).
There are 3 huge stuffed animals in the craft room now - like the size of small children. There’s a coyote (and a smaller jackrabbit) by Kamar, but I haven’t looked at the tags of the others.
There’s so much fabric I want to get rid of. So much to unpack. Things of mine I packed before 2013, things I haven’t seen since I moved to Maine in 2005. And that’s not even getting into all of mom’s crafting and costuming hoard, let alone her clothes and jewelry.
Why did I bring back so much stuff from my great-aunt’s stash? Most of the tacky jewelry will go to shiftythrifty people. Other bits will be broken down into parts. I fret that I grabbed pieces with real ivory, though. I couldn’t gather the nerve to ask about the African beaded necklace that hangs on the wall. I had permission to take the “butterfly” wall hanging, but there wasn’t much room in the truck. (Mom made it as a gift, maybe back in the 1970s or 1980s.)
So much to wash - clothes, jewelry, tiny plastic toys. I have a sink-sized bin filled to the brim with MLP, doll house furniture, play kitchen pieces, figurines, that all need to be washed. The baby doll clothes I had washed earlier are still dingy. Some pieces need detergent applied directly, rather than just soaking in soapy water.
I’m overwhelmed at the thought of all these tasks. Logic says to take it bit by bit, but I have that child-of-a-hoarder panic again. Great-aunt J was technically not a hoarder. She was rich and organized, had a big house and no kids. She utilized things as-is. There was no “wasted potential”, like mom’s craft supplies.
I have lots of feelings tangled with memories, after glancing at photos taken during my 1997 visit. I’m in my pretty pink dress, about to go to church or just after we got back. That was the day I lost faith in people and religion. It took me so long to realize what a horrible time in my life that was.
Sometimes I feel sick when I reflect on all the shit these women left behind - the emotional baggage and literal junk. It makes me grateful that we were distant from dad’s side of the family for so long. I’m more appreciative and cautious of these new relationships. I’m not assuming they’ll do what family is allegedly supposed to do, so I won’t be let down.
I’ve talked about these topics before, and I know how to handle them. It’s just that these metaphoric scabs have been picked again. It’s just gotta ooze a little, before I can start to heal back to where I was before.
I’m very excited about these new treasures and fun things. But I have to admit to myself that they’re a small “reward” for enduring these heartaches. It’s all tangled together.