I came across this post from Ariel (of the Offbeat Bride/Empire fashion) and it left me with a lot to think about. Most people who know me know that my childhood home was not a happy place, for a myriad of different reasons. But I had never really thought about my home being a reaction to how I used to live.
The first place I remember growing up was in a two bedroom apartment in Bladensburg. We moved once my parents found out they were expecting my two younger brothers, to Hyattsville. The house had two bedrooms, which my brother and I got, whereas my parents got the loft like attic, with my newly born brothers' cribs lining the walls. Our places were always crammed with a ton of stuff. My parents moved trash once (forgot to empty trashcans) and we ended up inheriting family heirlooms, from both sides; my mother's parents moved out west and my father's parents passed away. Our attic in the last place we lived all together, College Park, was bursting. My mother had to make a map of the attic so we knew where to find items. Our hallways were lined with bookshelves and sentimental items. My parents bed rose a few inches off the ground because the space underneath was packed. My parents were packrats.
I know that with the show Hoarders, people think that spaces stuffed with a lot usually is one big issue. My mother collected much of what she did to cope with the abuse she was suffering from. She is also an antique & button fiend, but now that she is on the cusp of moving again, she purged a lot.
I had to move several times in my early 20's, both to and from college and to the various apartments I shared with my then fiance and roommates. I'm also a fiend of many things; books, postcards, tank tops. But I've gone the minimalist route as much as possible. Don't buy any books that you don't absolutely love or can get from the library first. Par down any clothes that don't make you feel like a million bucks. Etc. My reaction to my family home is not accumulate so much that I forget why I love it, that I forget to live.