For the last few years, I’ve been slowly getting rid of junk; I should say ridiculous shit we’ve kept around for decades. I no longer have a sentimental attachment to things; a few years ago, I did get rid of some kitchen items I regretted during the holidays.
I forgot I gave away things I used when making a holiday meal for more than 4 of us. I quickly made do with what I had, so keeping it wasn’t that important.
Ten years ago, I purged my personal belongings throughout the summer. It took nine contractor-size bags to donate or throw away things I didn’t need. Why in fucks name did I still keep stretched-out hair scrunchies in a drawer with other 80s shit. I lugged that crap four times when we moved.
My thoughts were that I didn’t want my boys to have to go through stupid stuff after I was gone. All it did was take up space and was utterly unnecessary to save. I didn’t want to alarm my family, thinking I was suicidal again, so I did it slowly, one bag at a time.
In 2013, my adopted mother, Eileen, had a stroke. It was determined early on that she would never be able to return to her apartment. I was grieving her loss of independence and dreading the thought of cleaning out her apartment. She had a lot of stuff!
Marty and I moved her by ourselves from NJ to VT to a 2-bedroom apartment after she sold her house in Iselin in only nine days. No inspections, sold as is. The good news was she sold quickly.
The bad news was that it was a HUGE, GIGANTIC job moving all her and my father’s things they had accumulated for 39 years in such a short period, with two young children to worry about.
We threw out, donated, and brought the rest of the stuff to VT. We hated it, but it had to be done. Was Eileen any help? What do you think? Not really. My role as Cinderella was making a comeback.
Then guess what happened? Two years after, she was living in her lovely garden apartment with a nice patio; she decided she wanted to be on the second floor right above where she was living in a one-bedroom apartment.
I nearly exploded and was barely able to hold it together. Marty had the same reaction when I told him she needed to be upstairs by the end of the month. UGH!! This woman thought of no one but herself. She had to downsize since the apartment was smaller. Not a problem for her; she sold her furniture to buy new stuff. For a shopaholic like Eileen, this was a dream come true.
We thought lugging her shit out of the moving van into the first-floor apartment was tough, but we had to move everything up a long narrow flight of stairs. She had an attic in this apartment where we needed to store many of her things using one of those pulldown ladders. Did I mention this was in the middle of the summer, and we both felt like we had heat stroke? UGH!
Over the two years after she moved to VT, it was apparent she bought many new clothes, shoes, handbags, jackets, and jewelry. So much I’ll jump ahead; she spent all my dad’s insurance money and the proceeds from selling her house; she had to go bankrupt in 2009. This was shocking to us. What a waste!
So back to the beginning of the story. Since she would be residing in a care facility, I had to move her belongings out of that apartment again! Alone because Marty was working up in Rutland, VT, and not Bennington like he did for the last move.
My mother had four large closets packed with clothes, shoes, scarves, and handbags. The attic was stuffed with more stuff. I was so overwhelmed and only had a month to get it done since I wasn’t going to pay out of my pocket for another month’s rent.
This almost killed me physically and emotionally. Plus, she was a constant, demanding bitch wondering why I wasn’t spending more time with her at the care facility. UGH! I almost had a nervous breakdown, which also tormented my ulcerative colitis.
In the end, I took an enormous amount of brand-new clothes, shoes, and handbags, all with the tags still on them, to a consignment store. I got a whopping $165 for all of it. I used that money to buy big storage totes at Home Depot. There were 27 oversized totes of clothing, shoes, coats, handbags, and other items.
I made 17 trips to Goodwill, getting rid of stuff that couldn’t go to the consignment store. I am not exaggerating; she had so many clothing and accessories.
She bought one in every color. Every top, turtleneck, sweater, pant, scarf, and shoe, you name it, was in every color she could find. A lot of the items still had tags on them. The funny thing is, she wore the same shit every time I saw her.
No wonder she went bankrupt; afterward, she must have used my dad’s pension and social security for shopping since she had no more credit cards. She always said she was barely getting by and was afraid she would run out of money. She still got her mani, pedi, and hair done, though.
After sorting through and moving, all that stuff made me sick. It made me never want to go shopping again. I still hate shopping. She ruined it for me.
Time ran out on me, so we had to rent a storage unit to bring her kitchenware, china, pots, pans, and the rest of everything.
I sold the furniture; there was no fucking way Marty and I were going to carry it down those stairs after struggling to get it up. People got a good deal since everything was in good condition. I used that money to pay for the large storage unit. The people who bought the furniture had to move it themselves.
The day I finished cleaning and closed up the apartment for good, I had a mini nervous breakdown. I sat on the wood floor and cried until I ran to the bathroom I had just cleaned and puked.
Then I cried more. Then I got angry. Then I cried more. I didn’t even have the energy to stand up and drive home. Did I mention that she was still badgering me about why I wasn’t spending enough time with her?
A couple of weeks ago, I decided to purge our basement. Back to the why should the kids have to clean out all our shit someday popped back into my mind. I made an announcement that no one could ask or look at what I was throwing away. If it were something important, it wouldn’t have been down in the basement for years and years.
This was week two; I decided to go through a large storage cabinet. Then I saw it. The twenty-pound bag of costume jewelry I shoved in there nine years ago. I went through her real jewelry when I packed her things up, which didn’t take long since I realized she had hocked it all to go shopping. WTF was wrong with this woman?
I took the heavy bag upstairs and noticed I neatly put items in jewelry boxes. I must have gotten sick to my stomach or mad at that point; I just threw the rest in a plastic bag, which ripped; because it was so heavy, I shoved it into one of her expensive sturdy tote bags.
Today, I was hoping to find some pieces of jewelry I liked since none of her clothing or shoes fit me; everything was too small or short. As I went through the shitty junk jewelry, I felt that same anger return again. I felt sick to my stomach. I never shed a tear when she passed away and thought maybe seeing this stuff may make me mushy and cry. Well, that didn’t happen.
I decided instead of throwing it all away; I would put aside dress-up jewelry for a few little girls I knew. There was plenty to go around. I found a few things I kept and decided that if I didn’t wear them in a year, I’d get rid of them too.
I saved one small box of gold jewelry if I ever have a granddaughter someday. I also kept one small box of real gold items she must have missed when she hocked everything my dad ever bought her. I put the box of ugly gold jewelry in a safe to cash in someday.
The good news is I filled a recycling container and trash can with useless shit from the basement, too—a pretty good start with the purging project!
I needed to write about this tonight. I absolutely have to let it go. Everything is finally gone, so there is no use in staying angry or upset about it anymore. This woman pushed me over the edge so many times I honestly don’t know how I did it.
Oh, I know how and why I did it; I promised my father before he died, we would always watch over and take care of her, which we did for 21 years. That was a promise I didn’t know how difficult it would be.
My writing mentor and friend Jon Katz challenged me a while back and told me to think of why and how I am and to share it with my readers. I wrote over a year and a half ago about how I hated pampering. He challenged me on that blog post with a phone call. Lol.
Guess what? I finally know! Because my mother was a pampered princess! She got her nails done every week. Every month, she got a pedicure, haircut, and color. She didn’t do the dishes because of her nails. Dragged my father shopping or out to eat constantly because she didn’t like to cook.
After I moved to VT and she spent years bitching that she had to clean, she finally got a cleaning lady because she didn’t have me as her maid anymore. (BTW, she automatically thought I would clean her apartment when she moved to VT, and I asked her if she was kidding.)
I’ve lived my entire life since I was 9, trying to act the exact opposite of her, which isn’t hard to do since I am nothing like her in the first place. I am a lot like my biological mom, which I absolutely love. I am so happy I have her in my life.❤️
Thanks for listening; I really needed it. I feel better now.
I’ve often wondered where the sense of entitlement came from in that generation of post WWII females. “I raised you so you you me everything” attitude. My mother, my Mother in law, several aunts and other older female friends and family. They all very much behaved the same as your adoptive mother. Exhaustive and it defies explanation. Someone should write a book for no other reason than to help we survivors understand the mindset and resulting chaos. Purging, be it mental or physical, is a wonderful thing. Good for you.
I wonder if some of the jewlery items could go to the school art project that Jon Katz is working with? Sorry,perhaps too late. Just a thought.
Oh how I hated being dragged to the salon every week so my mother could get her hair done. Her precious f@cking hair – could never get it wet, not in the rain, not in the shower, not in the pool. Why bother? It always puzzled me. I refuse to be a slave to my hair, lol. Let it do what it will.