Or should the title be My Attic, Myself? My numerous trips carting Christmas up to the Great Upstairs has once again brought me face to face with my darkest secret. I have lots of StufF.

The StufF is remnants of the me ‘s I used to be. All the projects I wanted to do but never did. All the cool stuff I no longer have a place for but still think is cool. I stand there trying to make sense of it all and then I’m struck by a worse thought. I’ve become my mother. Commence wailing.

I’m the daughter of a hoarder. Of course, I have tendencies. But I’ve always been good and ushering the old out the door. But the attic is a protected by some sort of laziness forcefield. It smacks of so much effort to clean it out, especially in the heat of the Summer or the cold of the Winter, that I close the door and it all disappears.

But when I come up to the Attic to grab a gift bag or any Holiday stuff, I cringe the amount of StufF. I began a purge last year and this year, I need to end it. Because I refuse to do to my kids what I fear will soon be done to me; being left with a bunch of junk to sort through after I’m gone. It’s a sure way to put a damper on how fondly your family will remember you.

Recently, I’ve even begun to have dreams in which I have to clear out the StufF from someone else’s house in a certain amount of time. I think my dreams are telling me something but they’re just being polite about not telling me it’s me.

So up to the Great Upstairs with bag and box to capture all those versions of “used to be” me and cart them down and out the door. There’s really only room in my house for the me I am now, and she wants a little more clarity and less chaos please.

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