Saturday Confession

Today is moving day. There is still some loose ends that need to be taken care of. On top of the normal anxiety of moving, my husband told me last night that he's throwing out all the bags of clothes that are in the basement as well as the garage. There's about eight large bags in the garage and eight large bags in the basement. I know, the number is grotesque. What's more embarrassing is there's also probably five more bags' worth floating around throughout the house upstairs. 

I am a hoarder. 

I specifically hoard clothes and personal care items. This is mostly a result of being homeless or so poor I've had to go without food so that my child and husband could eat. It doesn't help any that, since having kids, I haven't had more than five shirts at a time (usually three), up to two pairs of pants (usually one), and maybe a pair of shorts.

I've been able to mostly overcome my hoarding of personal care items. I've recently thrown out a bunch of stuff I've accumulated over the last few years. Shampoo, body wash, stuff like that. 

But I'm having a really hard time getting past throwing away all these clothes. I have come to terms with throwing away the clothes in the garage because my husband said they're destroyed. Even though there's a part of me saying, "Yeah, but he said that about the clothes at his parents' and he was wrong about that...found a bunch of shit you'd been looking for." I won't keep destroyed clothes and have gladly thrown stuff like that away. Well. Not gladly. There was usually a part of me that was a little sad about it. 

But my anxiety about the "house clothes" is so high, it's not fucking funny. I keep having panic attacks. These are clothes I've used recently. Within the last year. I know there's certain items I've been looking for in them. Keepsakes from my kids that my husband carelessly threw into bags. Clothes that I had put away that I know will still fit at least one of the kids this year. I'm so fucking mad at him for making me do this.

Maybe if he'd have helped me pack, I could have had time to go through them. 

Instead of hiding in the basement doing whatthefuckever he was doing the past couple weekends, he could have helped me. 

If only I could find this one particular sweater that, so far, each of my kids have worn maybe I could part with the rest...

Why doesn't he care what he's doing to me?

Why can't my hips work properly right now to allow me to look through them? (Last night, after all the work I've done in the house, I collapsed to my knees because of sharp pains in both hips. Usually, just one and usually, I can catch myself.)

I didn't realize it was this bad until now (this should be a Pour Your Heart Out post)... I couldn't sleep last night. It's also possibly why all these nightmares have been manifesting themselves. 

I need to try to reason with him...Work out some sort of deal. I've already been pushed to my limits. I really don't know if I can be pushed much further...Not without having a complete meltdown, which probably isn't good for the baby. None of it is, really...