I don't Spring clean.
Every now and then I purge. I sell on eBay. I throw things in the trash. I get rid of, don't think twice about, and just, wildly and with abandon, discard.
I'm not terribly sentimental. My great-grandmother died recently and I was pretty much completely appalled at how some people in my family behaved over her possessions. I told my grandmother, her daughter, "When you die, I don't want anything. My memories of you are enough".
And really, they are.
I found, in my flinging, a diary.
I've kept diaries since I was seven years old. I have dozens, literally. The one I found? I started writing when I was pregnant with Boy and Girl Child.
It was confused.
It was weeping. The pages were stained with my tears.
It was utterly painful.
I don't remember being that person. I don't remember feeling that helpless. That hopeless.
I don't know if I'm ready to remember being that way.