Courtesy of rentcafe.com
Courtesy of rentcafe.com

By SARAH LEWIS, Editor-in-Chief

I’ve been known to be a gatherer, to put it lightly. I have hoarded away everything you could imagine: faded out movie ticket stubs, receipts, empty shoe boxes, homework assignments from years past, and clothes that I probably couldn’t fit over my head even if I wanted to.

I never realized I truly had a problem until I decided to wage a war against my walk-in closet that I could barely shimmy into until quite recently. I couldn’t help but ask myself, “Is this real life?”

I don’t know exactly why I have a tendency to be such a squirrel.

Maybe it’s because seventh grade Sarah thought her sonnet about two different boys needed to be stored away forever since it was basically one step away from Shakespeare. Or maybe it’s because I’m actually just too lazy, or dare I say nostalgic, to part with my old self?

Not only did I find way too many Aeropostale baby tee’s when I started my purge, but along with the sonnets I also stumbled upon quite a few diaries from middle school, or, as I like to call the period from sixth to eighth grade, The Dark Ages.

Naturally, I got sidetracked the moment my mirrored closet doors screeched open. I wedged myself between and sat on the ground to shuffle through my shelves with several empty garbage bags in tow. This is when I discovered the relics from The Dark Ages.

I found diary upon diary filled with scrawls of how obsessed I was over certain boys. Each page was chock full of details about my latest crush that I probably only spoke to once because, let’s be honest, I still don’t have that much game.

Finding these journals was an absolute disaster. As soon as I pried my eyes away from the angst-ridden writings of my youth, I whizzed them into the first of many garbage bags.

It was in that moment of second-hand embarrassment for my younger self that I decided I was done stowing away all of those useless remains from my past.

I acted like a woman possessed. I filled garbage bag after bag with outdated or ill-fitting clothing, dusty old notebooks, purses printed with cherries and pathetic, faux Louis Vuitton letters, and so much more.

Throughout this purge, I made two piles: trash and donations. A lot of the clothing and shoes stored in the back of my closet weren’t ready for the garbage. I realized that someone could actually wear the jeans I couldn’t get halfway up my thighs.

It took me about four hours of rummaging, organizing, and cleaning before I could actually, get to walk around in my walk-in closet. I had piles of clothes ready to donate and five garbage bags ready for the dump.

I don’t know how I was able to fit that much stuff in a seven-by-four square foot area, but I do know that I will never be going back.

It felt good to get rid of the things I didn’t need anymore. It felt even better to donate what I could.

If you’re a hoarder like I once was (I’m a recovering hoarder now), I have some advice for you: if you really want to eradicate the problem, start simple and take a look at your old pictures, clothes, notes, or journals from The Dark Ages. Although the embarrassment will sting, it will empower you to destroy all evidence as fast as humanly possible.