Lessons in Letting Go

by Corinne Grant

  Lessons in

  Letting Go

  Lessons in

  Letting Go

  Confessions

  of a Hoarder

  CORINNE GRANT

  First published in 2010

  Copyright © Corinne Grant 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Cataloguing-details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.librariesaustralia.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74175 342 4

  Internal design by Lisa White

  Set in 11.5/18 pt Adobe Garamond by Post Pre-press Group, Australia

  Printed and bound in Australia by Griffin Press

  The paper in this book is FSC certified. FSC promotes environmentally responsible, socially beneficial and economically viable management of the world’s forests.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Dedicated to the memory of Graham Middleton.

  Thank you for your belief and encouragement.

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE: Where It Started

  PART TWO: Where It Became Unsteady

  PART THREE: Where It Collapsed

  PART FOUR: Where It Was Rebuilt

  PART FIVE: When It Was Done

  Twenty-Two Lessons in Letting Go

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Prologue

  ‘Corinne, what in Christ’s name am I holding?’

  I turned around. My ex-boyfriend Thomas was holding what appeared to be a bunch of sticks in his hand. Even though we’d broken up ages ago, he’d agreed to help me move house. He looked like he was regretting it now; we’d been packing for hours.

  We were both standing in the open-plan living area, surrounded by cardboard boxes, old doonas, stuffed toys and what may or may not have once been a fancy-dress caterpillar costume. The kitchen, just behind Thomas, was littered with plastic bags and bits of packing tape. There were pots and pans sitting on the bench tops and the bits of material I’d strung across the windows in a pathetic attempt at home decoration were sagging. If anyone had walked in at that moment, they would have assumed they were looking at a typical flat in the process of being packed up. They wouldn’t have known that my flat looked like this all the time. In fact, right now, with the packing under way and half-filled boxes and bags strewn amongst the usual clutter, it was looking decidedly better than it had done in months.

  ‘Well?’ Thomas rattled the bunch of sticks at me.

  I attempted a light, carefree laugh. What came out of my mouth sounded more like a chicken being strangled. I took a deep breath.

  ‘They’re the first bunch of flowers a boy ever gave me. It was back when I was at university and—’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘Nooooo,’ I explained. ‘They’re a dried arrangement.’

  ‘They’re brown. And dead. They are dead, brown sticks.’ He went to throw them in the garbage bag.

  ‘Wait!’ I grabbed his arm. ‘You don’t get to make that decision.’

  I’d had enough. We’d been packing most of the night and I had already thrown out a whole lot of things because Thomas had told me to—not because I wanted to—and I was not throwing these out as well. I could feel the panic rising.

  He held open the garbage bag and suggested I look inside and tell him what, precisely, I thought I should be taking back out again. The broken bread bin? The coffee cup that no longer had a handle? The ripped, blank Christmas cards we had found, inexplicably, under the fridge? To my shame, I started to cry.

  ‘The sticks are different. Please don’t make me throw them out.’

  Thomas sighed and rubbed his eyes.

  ‘Corinne, I just can’t bring myself to put these in a box. I just can’t. This is getting ridiculous.’

  I thought about it for a moment. He was right, obviously. I was being foolish. They looked nothing like flowers anymore.

  ‘Okay. We’ll throw them out.’

  He looked relieved.

  ‘But I want to take a photo of them first.’

  Thomas held the flowers at arm’s length, refusing to be in the photo with them, and I framed up and clicked the camera. Then we threw them in the bin. I felt better and worse simultaneously. Thomas and I had lived together when we were a couple, but only now did I feel like I was letting him see me naked for the first time. And not naked in a good way but bad naked, like he’d just caught me taking a dump in the shower.

  The photo was unnecessary, I can see that. Not only was it unnecessary, it was probably an indication of clinical insanity. And yet, that photo turned out to be what saved everything.

  It floated back into my life a few years later, escaping a box that had fallen from the wardrobe. I’d been having a bad day. I’d been trying desperately, for the hundredth time, to pare back my belongings and for the hundredth time it wasn’t working. I’d lost my temper, thrown a few things around, yelled a lot and sworn at my stuff. In turn, my stuff had retaliated by hurling itself out of the wardrobe. Not content with that, the boxes of rapidly descending crap had then proceeded to knock over my favourite mirror, which smashed to smithereens at my feet. It was hard not to take the whole thing personally. It was equally hard not to go a little floppy and start sobbing. Of all the things I owned, that mirror meant the most.

  As I was standing there—surrounded by broken glass, old magazines, all of my pencils from primary school, two Eiffel Tower–shaped key-rings, a miniature bottle of Malibu, half a stapler and what I was praying was a ball of hair that had once belonged to a doll and not a human—I saw the photo of Thomas and the sticks. I picked it up. I had no idea what I was looking at. It appeared to be a picture of someone’s arm holding . . . what? Twigs? Branches? Really ordinary divining rods? Why had I taken a photo of this? Why had I—oh my god. Oh. My. God.

  That was the day I realised I was a hoarder and also, if I was honest with myself, perhaps a little unhinged.

  It took a year to drag myself out of the mess. A year in which I lost my dearest friend and then promptly lost my way. A year in which I ran away overseas, came back and then ran away again. A year in which I learnt to let go, learnt to forgive, learnt to grow up and learnt that we can all accidentally find ourselves filming dog porn when we thought we were filming something else. It was a big year. It was a lot of work.

  But before all of that, before I could even begin to clear out my life, I had to figure out where it all started. Irrespective of how it may look to an outsider, hoarders don’t just pop out of the ground fully formed. Hoarding isn’t something anyone is aware of until it’s too late. Hoarding sneaks up on you in the middle of the night wearing dark glasses and a false moustache and weasels its way in when you’re not looking.

  Before the stuff went, I was going to have to get to the truth of the matter. And the truth of the matter is this: hoarding do
esn’t start with the stuff. It starts with something else.

  And that something else is much, much harder to get rid of.

  Part 1

  Where It Started

  Chapter One

  I was in Albury–Wodonga the first time I experienced regret. I was eight years old. I was standing next to another little girl in Waltons department store, looking down through the railings of the first floor to the toy section below. The other girl was the same height as me and had dark hair and a red pinafore. She turned her head, looked right at me and asked which I liked better, bears or dolls. I was so overcome by terror that instead of answering, I ran away.

  The reason I was so terrified in the first place had a lot more to do with Albury–Wodonga than the little girl in the red pinafore. I grew up in Corryong, which was (and still is) one hundred and twenty-four kilometres to the east of Albury–Wodonga. We didn’t have department stores, or roundabouts or traffic lights or our very own Darrell Lea. Instead, we had a guy we claimed was the Man From Snowy River buried in our cemetery. We also had two supermarkets, two butchers, two banks and a swimming pool so iridescently blue you needed a welding mask to look at it directly. We had eleven hundred people. We also had two pubs: the Top Pub, which was at the top end of town, and the Bottom Pub, which wasn’t. Apart from that, there wasn’t much else. It was a beautiful, friendly, perfect town in which to grow up but it wasn’t a fancy town. And I was definitely not a fancy kid.

  We were Top Pub folk and every Friday night we would go there for what we called ‘tea’ but city folk probably called ‘dinner’. Mum, Dad, my sister Wendy and I would sit in the ladies’ lounge in front of the giant TV screen and us kids would watch our favourite programme, The Dukes of Hazzard. I loved Bo Duke so hard it made my eyes water.

  We knew everyone else in the Top Pub and if we didn’t know them by name, we could pick which family they belonged to from their physical traits. That blond guy with the big head sitting near the fernery? Had to be a Smithton. That woman with the low-slung backside and curly hair? Definitely a Framer. That skinny red-headed kid screaming and racing around the condiments table with a fork? That was one of the Tully boys. Run.

  Occasionally there would be a family from out of town and all us kids, sitting quietly with our parents, hands folded in our laps or placed carefully on the tops of the faux-wood laminate tables, would watch them out of the corners of our eyes, secretly hoping these strangers might be the drama we were looking for. We were watching to see if they ordered the same food as us and if they didn’t it would be the topic of conversation in the playground for days to come. ‘They let their kids order from the adult menu! She was my age and she had a whole Chicken Maryland to herself.’ Everyone would get in on the act and it would become a running joke: ‘Hey, Tony, what have you got for lunch? Bet it’s not a whole Chicken Maryland.’ ‘What are you drawing, Virginia? Is it a whole Chicken Maryland?’ ‘Burke and Wills would have survived if their parents had given them a whole Chicken Maryland.’ Strangers were something to be discussed and dissected, like rumours of ghosts, or aliens, or kidnappers leaping straight from the pages of an Enid Blyton book. No wonder I was so overwhelmed by that little girl in Albury–Wodonga; I’d never had contact with people I had not known my whole life.

  We went to Albury–Wodonga every couple of months to see dentists or doctors and to buy all the things we couldn’t get in our own small town. Albury–Wodonga had fluorescent socks, hyper-colour T-shirts and shops that sold just one thing, like cassette tapes or underwear or ice-cream. In my town, we had a hairdresser that doubled as a trophy engraver and tripled as a gun dealer. (It was probably the only shop in the world where you could get a freshly shot duck not only professionally mounted but permed at the same time.) Albury–Wodonga had streets and streets and floors and floors of novelty and speciality and single-purpose stores. The fact that the townsfolk did not walk their own streets slack-jawed in wonder at the sheer amount on offer was very impressive and very cool. These people were way out of my league. They probably ate Chicken Maryland every night.

  We would drive down to Albury–Wodonga in Nanna’s ’66 Holden Special. My grandmother didn’t drive so the car was rarely used and consequently, more than a decade after its purchase, still smelt new. The seats were leather, the little hand straps that hung from the roof in lieu of seatbelts smelt like leather, even the floor smelt like leather. It also had a white venetian blind on the rear windscreen that crinkled with a tinny sound every time I touched it.

  Nanna used to pack a little waterproof purse with two wet face washers and it would sit on the sill behind the back seats, warming in the sun for the entire trip. When we got to the city we would use the cloths to wipe down our faces and hands and any detritus we had managed to spill on ourselves during the trip. The face washers were hot and sun-warmed and smelt like the inside of the purse. To this day, the slightly toxic and suffocating smell of hot plastic comforts me.

  Halfway through our day trip we would inevitably wind up in Waltons department store for lunch. Waltons had automatic sliding doors that looked like real doors because they were made out of wood, which proved to me that it was definitely a posh shop. It sold everything, from clothes to furniture to appliances and it had a cafeteria on the top level overlooking the floors below. For some peculiar reason they did not have prawn cutlets on their menu, so I always ordered the second most sophisticated meal I could imagine: ham, cheese and pineapple on toast.

  On the day that would turn out to be my last without regret, I was on tiptoes at the balustrade, looking straight down. Years later, Waltons would shut down, the toy section would become a nightclub and I would go there and consume vastly injurious quantities of raspberry-flavoured lemonade and vodka, but for now I was eight, looking at toys and wondering if I could convince my mother that we should go down the stairs for a closer look. As I was daydreaming, the little girl in the red pinafore came and stood beside me. Then she spoke to me. I froze. This city girl, this fancy city girl with her shops full of stuff and her traffic lights and cinemas and Daisy’s Baked Potatoes was actually standing right there and talking. To. Me.

  A big part of me wanted to answer her—I was imagining the thrill of going to school the next day and announcing I had made a new friend that nobody else knew—but an even bigger part of me was scared. I had no idea how to speak to someone I had never met. This girl was obviously worldly. One glance at the rakish angle of her scrunchie could have told you that. I twitched nervously. There was probably a protocol to answering her and if I got it wrong, I would make a fool of myself. It was a risk too big to take. So instead of replying I stared at her, gaping mutely. Then I ran away.

  Almost immediately, I recognised my mistake. This was my first chance for an adventure and I had blown it. What had I done? I stopped running. I was pretty sure she had asked me if I liked the toys. I would go back and answer yes, yes I did like the toys; in fact, I was quite partial to a Strawberry Shortcake doll, followed closely by a Barbie doll and if forced into a corner, I would accept a Puggle. Yes, that was it, I would simply go back and strike up a conversation like nothing weird had happened, like I had never run away from her with my mouth hanging open and we would end up best friends. But when I returned to the spot where she had been, she had disappeared. Just like that, like she had never been there. She didn’t even leave a puff of smoke. It dawned on me that this was the first time in my life that I had met someone I would never see again. The idea that some people existed and then they didn’t and you could never go back and fix your mistakes was a new and not entirely pleasant concept.

  I spent the rest of the day hoping I would find her. I looked for her in the supermarket, in Lincraft, in Darrell Smailes Audio, in Darrell Lea. I even hoped to see her in the dentist’s waiting room and hope was not a feeling I normally had there.

  For months after the encounter with the girl in the red pinafore I would wake in the middle of the night with an overwhelming feeling of dread. It wa
s so strong it would make it hard for me to breathe. I was tortured by the belief that I had hurt the girl’s feelings and, worse, that this could have been my first big adventure and I had run away from it. It felt like the biggest mistake of my life. It probably was. I was only eight.

  Each night I lay in bed and replayed the memory over and over in my head and then, because I couldn’t stop myself, I would start imagining what had happened to her after I left. A mutated version of a Hans Christian Andersen favourite would play out behind my eyelids: my little Waltons girl, filled with sorrow and a sense of abandonment, ends up homeless, wearing a tattered shawl and selling matches on a street corner until one freezing New Year’s Eve, so cold she can barely breathe, she lights her final match to keep herself warm. Then she dies of hypothermia. Heartbroken, cold and alone, her final vision is of me running away from her.

  It did not occur to me until years later that she probably just shrugged it off and went back to looking at the toys. Even if I had hurt her feelings, I am sure her mother would have given her an ice-cream and everything would have been set right. Until that day, ice-cream would have fixed things for me also but now everything was tinged with guilt. I would eat an ice-cream and feel sad for all the starving African babies who would never know what it was like. I desperately needed to redeem myself and there seemed to be only one way to do that: I would finger-knit my school a new volleyball net.

  Every lunchtime and recess, after school, before school, during school, I finger-knitted. I would sit, huddled over my own hands, carefully winding the wool around my finger, sliding loops through loops, creating a little chain of woolly deliverance. Whenever anyone asked me what I was doing, I would announce proudly: ‘I’m making us a new volleyball net.’ I had grand visions of an unveiling involving the town mayor, a plaque and possibly an engraved cup—with or without a freshly shot duck. I also had grand visions of once again getting a full night’s sleep, unhaunted by visions of the little girl in Waltons.