So I'm still afraid. It's a big *part* of who I am, just like my things. But it isn't *who* I am, and that is what makes all the difference.

In one way or other I was going to have to confront every one of the things I had deemed worth keeping--or, at least, not worth the distress of deciding about--and reevaluate it. Over and over again. Although I have yet to figure out what drives my compulsion to save, I know this much: it is the thought of making a bad decision, one that I will some day regret, that keeps me up at night.

I don't think hoarders prefer squalor. Rather, I'd theorize that when yucky things happen, for some the attachment to objects is so strong that they must exist in denial rather than confront the cause: the clutter. The hoard. An overabundance of objects with no proper place to go. pg 167

I don't like to brag or anything--but I really am exceptionally gifted when it comes to the "Stuff" department. If I had a title, it might be "Her Royal Highness, the Queen of Crap." I could look snootily down from high atop my pile of ancient magazines, holding a scepter of dried bridesmaid bouquets, bedecked with a crown made entirely of those extra button packs that helpfully accompany sweater purchases, proclaiming "SAVE IT!" in an emphatic yet regal tone.

I have a fond daydream of a day when, like normal, unclutterd folks, I can bring people through my house without hesitation, without secrecy, and without closed doors. More than that, I envision a day when I can confidently stride into every room of my house and find my children's birth certificates or my high school year book or a needle and thread whenever the need presents itself without breaking into hives.

It was a mess, but it was a happy, cozy mess. A mess of lovely, largely happy memories. I felt lucky to have them, despite the disorder of it all...