When I was younger, I wasn’t exactly a packrat, but I had a decent amount of stuff related to being a vinyl-collecting musician with a taste for kitsch.
Then I moved in with the woman who became my ex-wife. She began a long, slow spiral into mental illness and hoarding. In one six month period, she blew 40 grand on the home shopping channels. We had boxes and bags full of ugly crap piled literally to the ceiling in every room of our tiny one bedroom apartment, including the bathroom. It came to a point that the only spaces I had to myself were the bed, a dresser, a few square feet on the kitchen table, and a hook on the back of the bedroom door. Thanks to the squalor, the place never got cleaned. When we finally moved, I found a ball of cat hair the size of a basketball behind the piles of boxes.
When I finally left her, I made a resolution to myself that I will never, ever live like that again. I’m not a minimalist per se - I just don’t have a whole lot of attachment to things. It’s not like I don’t have any art or tchotchkes or anything - I’m just very, very picky about what I acquire, and I make sure that I’m absolutely certain that it’s something that I’ll use or like for the long term.
About every six months or so, I’ll go on a purging bender, and pitch anything I haven’t touched or looked at in a year.
I had an interesting experience moving in with my fiancee. She’s not a hoarder by any means, but her upbringing has lead her to develop a fear of “wasting” anything. She had these computer speakers that she was trying to get rid of in the yard sale before the big move. Nobody bought them. She asked friends about buying them. Nobody wanted them.
She was getting ready to pack, and I saw her put the speakers in to a box.
“Why don’t you just pitch 'em?” I asked.
“I really don’t know. I’m sure as hell sick of looking at them, but somebody might want to buy them. They’re worth like ten bucks.”
“So it pains you every time you look at them, but you can’t let them go because somebody might give you a few bucks for them?”
“Well…”
“If I were pinching you on the arm every few minutes, would you want me to stop right now, or would you rather I pinch you for another week and pay you ten dollars when I stop?”
She threw them out.