It's springtime in California. For the first time in years, I have a powerful dose of spring cleaning urge. And so, like a maniac, I started trying to organize the garage today instead of beginning with something easy. Along with the "man cave," one of the other rooms, several of the closets, and a storage unit, the garage (together with the crawl space storage under the house) is one of the husband-only domains in our home. It's a daunting task, but I won't be able to organize the rest of the house without somewhere to stage and sort all the things he's collected over the years.
Mind you, I'm not planning to plow through "his stuff" with abandon. That just doesn't seem right, somehow. Not yet, anyhow. It just feels as though it might be time to start thinking about culling the herd, so to speak. But I've discovered that it's going to be a monumental undertaking. It turns out there's a lot. A whole lot.
I knew about the hoarding of CDs, DVDs, and sports cards. Those were collections, a hobby, I told myself. He spent hours organizing and filing and cataloging his collections. And yet they are in total disarray, some here, some there, and I'm still finding more. Even in the garage. And under the house.
He has tool chests, yet there are tools absolutely everywhere. Decaying, rusting bits and bobs. Tiny containers of something or other having to do with nuts and bolts and nails and screws and things. There are car parts, but are they old parts that are broken and have been replaced with new ones, or are they new ones? Am I meant to figure that out somehow, or should they just be discarded? He seems to have purchased new cleaners and waxes and motor oils and things instead of using up the ones he already had. And they're everywhere. Every shelf (and there are many) is a fresh challenge for which I am wearing leather utility gloves, just in case.
Who knows, really, how long this disease has been attacking my husband? Was he unable to find what he was looking for, or had he forgotten what he had and where he had placed things? It must have been so incredibly frustrating for him, poor man. Imagine using an item and not remembering where it belongs or even that you have it. Imagine coming home with a new container of something or other you've run out of and need for a project, only to find there are already half a dozen half-empty ones. Imagine never throwing anything away for fear of having thrown away the only one you would ever have. Imagine not letting anyone help you, because you don't want them to know how bad things are.
Imagine having six copies of something at your office, but not being able to find a single one, even though they're right there in front of you. This is what I discovered when I went to his workplace to help him with a project years ago, before he lost his job, when he was so exhausted and working incredibly long hours just to keep his head above water.The year I became his unofficial administrative assistant, I thought he was burning out (as they say) from his high-stress job. He couldn't seem to get his act together. It makes me weep to realize that, at the time, I didn't understand what was happening to him.
What a nightmare this disease is, not only for the ones who have it, but also for those closest to them. It is relentless. It is cruel. But all disease is, to some degree or other. It's just that this is the one we're dealing with at the moment, and it ain't pretty. Someday, I hope I'll be able to look back and realize I did the best I could for the one I love. But right now, I am thinking I may have embarked on this project a bit too soon.
He has tool chests, yet there are tools absolutely everywhere. Decaying, rusting bits and bobs. Tiny containers of something or other having to do with nuts and bolts and nails and screws and things. There are car parts, but are they old parts that are broken and have been replaced with new ones, or are they new ones? Am I meant to figure that out somehow, or should they just be discarded? He seems to have purchased new cleaners and waxes and motor oils and things instead of using up the ones he already had. And they're everywhere. Every shelf (and there are many) is a fresh challenge for which I am wearing leather utility gloves, just in case.
Who knows, really, how long this disease has been attacking my husband? Was he unable to find what he was looking for, or had he forgotten what he had and where he had placed things? It must have been so incredibly frustrating for him, poor man. Imagine using an item and not remembering where it belongs or even that you have it. Imagine coming home with a new container of something or other you've run out of and need for a project, only to find there are already half a dozen half-empty ones. Imagine never throwing anything away for fear of having thrown away the only one you would ever have. Imagine not letting anyone help you, because you don't want them to know how bad things are.
Imagine having six copies of something at your office, but not being able to find a single one, even though they're right there in front of you. This is what I discovered when I went to his workplace to help him with a project years ago, before he lost his job, when he was so exhausted and working incredibly long hours just to keep his head above water.The year I became his unofficial administrative assistant, I thought he was burning out (as they say) from his high-stress job. He couldn't seem to get his act together. It makes me weep to realize that, at the time, I didn't understand what was happening to him.
What a nightmare this disease is, not only for the ones who have it, but also for those closest to them. It is relentless. It is cruel. But all disease is, to some degree or other. It's just that this is the one we're dealing with at the moment, and it ain't pretty. Someday, I hope I'll be able to look back and realize I did the best I could for the one I love. But right now, I am thinking I may have embarked on this project a bit too soon.
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