So we are selling the house I grew up in. As a child of a hoarder, I have a very complicated relationship with that house. My best friend was devastated when they had to sell her childhood home (and her grandfather lived right next door so it wasn't as if she would never be able to be in the area again and visit her hometown). My boyfriend was very upset when he moved away from home. I would say I'm relieved, but I'm mostly just apathetic.
I've avoided going "home" as much as possible since I left six years ago. I stay for a week tops. And when I go back, I spend as little time in the house as possible. I go out and I wander around the mall alone. I take the dog on long walks. I do homework at the local library. Mostly I sleep late, find an excuse to leave – some friend I haven't seen in forever, a long walk to hang out with them, then a long walk home – dinner, and then tying up my running shoes to go out for a walk/run. I take the same route every night. I run through the only parts of town that I will miss.
I run past my first job – a cushy office in the second floor of an office building where I addressed envelopes and entered names into a database. I run in the dark, along a street I would take to my best friend's house in elementary school – we aren't friends anymore. I detour further on and run by the gold course where we would go sledding in the winter. And then I run past my best friend's house. We were inseparable in high school. Then college came. She stayed in Massachusetts, I went to Maine. She passed away three years ago. I still run by her house, though. It brings me comfort to think of all the times we spent gossiping in her basement, the failed cooking experiments we conducted in her too-small oven, the time we used two whole bottles of hair dye on her thick mane and barely even changed the color. And then I walk. I wander for a long time. When I get cold or tired or too lost, I pull up the maps on my phone and get to the center of town and from there go back to my house.
I go inside and shower – the mildewy shower curtain clinging to my legs as the water dribbles from the soap scummy showerhead. The bathmats are missing, so I step onto the bare tile floor, careful not to slip. I dress and take my clothes back into my room with me. I have two suitcases, one where I keep my dirty clothes, one my clean. I never unpack. I go to sleep and sleep late and wake the next day to repeat the process.
In six years, I have spent maybe seven weeks there. I haven't been back for a year and a half. And now I have to go before March and clean out everything I've ever owned. I have to stuff bag after back full of trash and box after box for the donate store. I'll keep the furniture – the bed and the bookshelves – in storage until I have my own home and have space for these things. I'll keep a few things. But basically everything has to go. It's been six years, I can't run away anymore. I have to go home and face the mess before I can turn my back on it forever.
I've avoided going "home" as much as possible since I left six years ago. I stay for a week tops. And when I go back, I spend as little time in the house as possible. I go out and I wander around the mall alone. I take the dog on long walks. I do homework at the local library. Mostly I sleep late, find an excuse to leave – some friend I haven't seen in forever, a long walk to hang out with them, then a long walk home – dinner, and then tying up my running shoes to go out for a walk/run. I take the same route every night. I run through the only parts of town that I will miss.
I run past my first job – a cushy office in the second floor of an office building where I addressed envelopes and entered names into a database. I run in the dark, along a street I would take to my best friend's house in elementary school – we aren't friends anymore. I detour further on and run by the gold course where we would go sledding in the winter. And then I run past my best friend's house. We were inseparable in high school. Then college came. She stayed in Massachusetts, I went to Maine. She passed away three years ago. I still run by her house, though. It brings me comfort to think of all the times we spent gossiping in her basement, the failed cooking experiments we conducted in her too-small oven, the time we used two whole bottles of hair dye on her thick mane and barely even changed the color. And then I walk. I wander for a long time. When I get cold or tired or too lost, I pull up the maps on my phone and get to the center of town and from there go back to my house.
I go inside and shower – the mildewy shower curtain clinging to my legs as the water dribbles from the soap scummy showerhead. The bathmats are missing, so I step onto the bare tile floor, careful not to slip. I dress and take my clothes back into my room with me. I have two suitcases, one where I keep my dirty clothes, one my clean. I never unpack. I go to sleep and sleep late and wake the next day to repeat the process.
In six years, I have spent maybe seven weeks there. I haven't been back for a year and a half. And now I have to go before March and clean out everything I've ever owned. I have to stuff bag after back full of trash and box after box for the donate store. I'll keep the furniture – the bed and the bookshelves – in storage until I have my own home and have space for these things. I'll keep a few things. But basically everything has to go. It's been six years, I can't run away anymore. I have to go home and face the mess before I can turn my back on it forever.
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