“If you don’t use it, or love it, get rid of it” – Louise Hay
In my life, I have had a long standing love/hate relationship with stuff.
As a child, if I cared too deeply about something, if I really liked it – my mother would see to it that it vanished. Preferably in some fashion that she could say was my own fault. Not as punishment, simply another aspect of her subtle cruelty. Her favorite was “It’s your fault, you lost it. You are so stupid, you are such an idiot…” you get the idea. It took me a very long time to admit that most of the things I “lost” had been removed from where I had carefully left them in what I believed was as safe a place as I could find. (I well knew she went through my room on a daily basis and destroyed or removed things as well as reading anything I wrote and inspecting my artwork – all of which was prone to “disappearance”)
As a child, I collected things. Notably, I collected Breyer horses. I would go hungry to save the money my mother gave me for food (she stopped feeding me when I was about 12 and instead left me a few bucks on the dining room table to go to a restaurant or buy frozen and cook it myself). I would buy something cheap – or nothing – and instead buy old Breyers, Hartlands, Hagen-Renakers, and other horse models. There were so many it was a bit hard for her to disappear them, although she made some vanish now and then. Her greatest coup was having a garage sale the day after my first wedding. I stopped by the house the next day to get a few things only to find every item I had left behind labeled with price tags in the garage and a crowd purchasing rare discontinued Breyer horses for their children to play with for a dime each. My mother laughed hilariously while she told me she wouldn’t waste the space to store any of my things. My fresh new husband screamed at me as I ran back and forth frantically gathering things and throwing them in his car. We did not have room in our apartment, he told me, for my shit.
Like most abused children, I had escaped one abusive household only to marry an abuser – thinking he was my saviour since he was not as cruel to me as my mother.
(Please spare me your sympathy – it’s nice, but I don’t want or need it – this is simply to give you an idea of the background I am coming from, okay? Thanks anyway)
P.p.s. I don’t much care if you dislike the fact my mother was my primary abuser. I don’t really care that she probably had a bad childhood (actually from what I understand – she did not and her sisters and brother are not abusers) or her own problems – she was, and is, mentally ill and probably never should have been allowed to raise a child. Like it or not – some mothers are BAD and EVIL and she is one. I know so much about psychopaths because ONE OF THEM RAISED ME.