Cleaning jag-day 6

Over the past few months I've had a growing suspicion and sudden near certainty that I've begun the journey we all fear—transformation into parents. In many respects, I couldn't consider this a bad thing; in others, dear God, it's something like waking up and realized you've descended into the pits of hell. I realized not long ago that I was turning into my dad in one of the worst possible ways. Hoarding. Or for those of us in denial, collecting. I woke up one day and realized if I don't change my evil ways I am bound to end up on an episode of Hoarders, or worse yet, star in a new show-Dumpster Wars. Neither is very appealing to me.

In my attempts to rectify this situation, I went crazy. I've been cleaning what doesn't need cleaned, reorganizing, and have convinced people to take my stuff because I've found it easier to give it to someone rather than throw it away. I don't even mind if they throw it away...I just need to not look at it while it happens.

I've reached a point today that every—make no mistake about it—every article of anything fabric is laundered with the exception of what is on my body and the last load that is in the dryer. I can't say I've ever been that caught up on laundry. Ever. It's even on these things I once heard referred to as “hangers”.

I let go of things I've been holding onto for what seems like a century or more, and have cleaned, cleaned, cleaned. Once I finish my living room and my bathrooms(bathrooms always deserve a second clean before company arrives), I fear I will fall into serious withdrawal from lack of Lysol or bleach fumes. This could turn into a vicious cycle.

This jag of mine has taught me something else about myself. Namely that I think I must have smoked so much pot in my younger years that I've blocked out approximately 4 years or so. Not in their entirety mind you, but enough that I should probably be worried. The odd thing is that I don't remember smoking all that much pot. Now and then, here and there, but there are vast voids that leave me lacking a better explanation. I'm 33. There isn't another logical explanation. Right?
One may wonder how I've come to this conclusion. That's the easy part—journals. I was a poor logger of events, but I wrote about enough that it should bring back the past as if it were yesterday. I found one from 1992, 1994, 1995, all the way through 2000. I've decided I should probably start logging my daily events as to not forget them tomorrow.

I wrote of a boy named Jason who I was apparently smitten with, who was apparently smitten with me. I don't remember Jason.

I wrote about a very bad experience with my crazy ex that probably should have been the number one reason to be afraid of him and I don't remember that. I'll chop that one up to the need to black it out to function properly until I was so far removed from it that it could hold no power over me.

I wrote about a guy, Brian; I remember three Brian's and none are this guy.

I wrote about two girls I apparently spend time hiding in a closet with in State College when a party we were at was busted. I hung out with them again and again, and I don't remember them. We were apparently even sober for some of these encounters.

I wrote about friends, shopping, and parties.

I do remember some, but not all. I would think that if a person made enough of an impact for me to write about them, that I would remember them 10 or 15 years later. Given this information, it is entirely possible that I simply forgot I was a pot head, right? I don't think I want to chop this up to old age just yet. I don't think I can blame bleach fumes just because I don't usually clean with bleach.

As I sit here ever so pleased that you could eat off of my floors, I'm left to wonder...is the fact that I realized I forgot parts of the best of my teenage years worth the price? :)