This is, to some extent, an appendix to my w/u in hoarder.
I'm tired. It's exhausting, this process of sifting through an entire life, deciding what to keep, what to sell, what to give away, what to throw out.
I know how much stuff has left this house, by way of the thrift shop, the recycling bin, the garbage, a few select things by way of the fireplace. I know how much is still here. How the hell did it all fit in this place? (I know the answer to that. I emptied out two rooms that were effectively just storage, not to mention a few closets.) And there is more space here now; I can see that, sitting here looking at the other side of the room, where all the clutter has been reduced to one neatly arranged set of bookshelves and a pile of boxes destined for the thrift shop (again).
Still. It's all in flux, nothing finished, too many things without final places to be put in. There's a stack of stuff by the stairs to go into the sewing room, but that requires some sorting and reorganisation in the sewing room to make space. Likewise the bin of tools in the corner: they need to go downstairs into the workroom, but that's a part of the house I've barely touched, and I've no idea yet how or where they're going to be stored.
The office is empty, give or take a desk that won't fit through the door, while I replace the flooring - which means that everything that used to be there is now all over the rest of the house. (Well, most of it. Lots of papers and magazines went to recycling. A lot more is in that pile of boxes waiting to be piled into my car and donated.) If I can get one room that's finished, that contains only what it's supposed to, with everything put away...then maybe this will feel less like shuffling stuff from place to place, room to room, give me one place that's pinned down, final, stable.
It was not fair of him, to abandon this world and leave everything behind, leave me with no choice but to find some resolution, something to do with all his possessions, his clothes, his class notes from university, his yearbooks, all the accumulation of nearly five decades on this earth. But then, nothing of how he treated me was fair or deserved, so this is no different - and this, at least, is finite. There is an end to this, and it's not too far off. There's still work to do, and no insignificant amount of it, but I remember where I started and I can see where it will end now.