My mother and college roommate will be the first two to tell you that I have a problem. I love to collect piles of crap, meaningless scraps of paper that have some sort of minuscule significance at one point in time. In this bigger process of moving back from college, the crash pad, and learning how to be a successful contributing member of greater society, I still have going away cards dated 9/1998, notes we passed back and forth in chemistry, report cards from senior year (two C's - calc and physics). If you sent me a birthday card in the past decade, I have it. Whats nice about the extreme clutter in my room is that it is free of boy - meaning all my boy boxes are hiding in the basement awaiting sentencing. In case you were wondering, oh ex-boyfriend(s), I'm shredding it all, decapitating stuffed bears, and throwing away what used to be your precious box. I think its a positive step in my disorder, seeing that for years the thought of destroying this stuff made me break out in hives. But finally, FINALLY, keeping it around makes me feel like I weight a million pounds.
I've also been home for a week and have another four days to go and needed SOMETHING to occupy my time. Go sick call! Sometimes, you just need a mental health day, or ten.