Lessons in Letting Go

by Corinne Grant

  To cheer myself up, I opened my now roomy wardrobe and stared with pride at the organised clothes, the three neatly stacked boxes and the useful blankets and towels. This was a normal person’s wardrobe. I walked into the bathroom and opened all the drawers to admire a normal person’s toiletries. Then I looked at myself in the mirror and instantly felt better. Despite the rings under my eyes and unkempt hair that hurt too much to brush today, I was looking at a woman capable of controlling her life, her belongings and her future. I was looking at a woman confronting her demons and slowly but surely achieving the impossible. Some people dream of becoming movie stars or prime ministers or Olympic athletes. I was a hoarder, I dreamed of living unhaunted.

  Motivation revived, I dragged out my ladder and spent the afternoon sorting through the top cupboards in the hallway. I had decided that the cluttered surfaces in front of me could wait; it was the monsters hiding in the dark that needed slaying first.

  I pulled everything down and determined that none of it would go back up. It was an easy decision to make as none of it was worth keeping: old Christmas wrapping that I was never going to reuse, an ominously titled ‘craft box’ that held a half-finished piece of knitting, fourteen balls of wool (what I would have given for them when I was eight years old), a bunch of unidentifiable things that had glued themselves to a bottle of PVA and my tennis racquet. I kept the tennis racquet.

  I was surprised at how easy all of this had become. Three months ago, I would have sifted through these things—carefully rearranging and smoothing and crooning—then packed it all away again. Now I looked at the mess in front of me and could not see any link between it and the person I had become. If I had ever been a girl who enjoyed half-finished projects, I certainly wasn’t now. I had three boxes that held things that I had achieved: plays I had written, shows I had produced, articles I’d had published. That was the stuff that made me proud, that was the stuff I should be reflecting on, not this sticky knotted mess of abandonment and failure. It struck me that the difference between a hoarder and a non-hoarder was not how much of their lives they had failed at, but how many reminders they kept of those failures. I was sure Michelle Obama had not succeeded at everything she had ever put her hand to, but I was equally sure that when she and Barack moved into the White House, she hadn’t stashed a bunch of half-finished latch-hook rugs behind the TV cabinet in the Roosevelt Room.

  I packed the ladder away again, looked up at the top cupboards and smiled. I was now, officially, a person with empty cupboards. I was okay. I realised this was going to take a long time to do, but I also knew that I would get it done; one drawer at a time, one cupboard at a time, one pot or pan at a time, slowly but surely, I would get it done. I felt stronger and more capable than I ever had in my life.

  And yet, something still didn’t feel right.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I worked solidly through the winter, pulling things out of cupboards and drawers and returning less and less to them as I went. I was so intent on getting rid of the stuff that I almost became a hermit. I barely left the house and I had invited no one to visit me at home since I’d returned from Jordan. For most of the time, there wouldn’t have been room for anyone else anyway. During the clearing out, the place had been so crammed with boxes, clothes and piles everywhere that there was barely enough space for me. But now, after weeks of pillaging and rampaging through my own belongings, apart from a stack of boxes and bags to go to charity, the place looked almost immaculate. There were still a few things that needed attending to, but from the outside, it was clear that I had made headway. More than headway; I was very close to living in a Level Three house.

  I rang Adam and demanded he come around straight away. When he arrived, I threw open the front door and grandly stepped aside so he could enjoy the spectacular vista of my one-bedroom flat. He stood in the doorway, hands either side of his face, Macaulay Culkin-style.

  ‘Oh my god! It looks great! Are you sure you live here?’ He laughed at his own joke and then suddenly turned serious. ‘Corinne, seriously. Are you living here, or have you rented somewhere else for all of your crap and set this place up as a display home?’

  ‘Oh, shut up and get inside.’

  I pulled him in, grinning. He walked around slowly, checking out the bookshelves that now held only books and not magazines, scripts, folders and paperwork. He checked under the dining room table and found that the chairs were cleared and could actually be sat upon. He pulled open the little drawers in the coffee table and saw they held nothing except notepads, pens and a neat stack of takeaway menus.

  ‘You’ve really done it!’ He was staring at me, open-mouthed. I grabbed his hand and dragged him into the bedroom.

  ‘Look in my wardrobe!’ I was jumping up and down behind him like an excited six-year-old.

  ‘Wow. This is really impressive. You can actually move things around in here. It looks like a wardrobe you’d see in a magazine—apart from the fact that you have terrible dress sense.’

  I slapped him on the shoulder.

  We wandered back out to the living area and Adam moved towards the desk. The roll-top was down and he went to lift it. I slammed it shut, almost taking off his fingers.

  ‘Jesus!’ He sucked his knuckles. ‘What are you hiding in there, Corinne?’ He squinted at me suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing.’ I was standing in front of the desk, barring his way.

  ‘It doesn’t count if all you’ve done is shove a whole lot of shit under there and pretended you’ve tidied up.’ He pushed me aside and flung open the roll-top. A stack of paper slid out and hit the ground. As he bent down to look at it, he noticed the pile stacked up underneath the desk chair.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Adam, it’s just paperwork, it’s nothing, really.’ I was pleading with him. He was waving a script around.

  ‘This is dated five years ago! What are you doing?’

  I slid down to the floor next to him. ‘I got stuck, Adam. I just stopped being able to do it anymore. It’s like I’ve torn a muscle in my brain and the decision-making part of it has gone into a coma. It’s paperwork. It’s too hard.’

  I wasn’t lying; I really did feel like I’d torn a muscle in my brain. I’d been clearing out day after day for weeks and I was exhausted. I’d reached my limit. For the past few days, all I’d done was open cupboards and stare hopelessly at what still needed to be done. The clothes, knick-knacks and books had been easy to get rid of in comparison to all the paperwork. What Adam had found in and under the desk was just the start of it.

  There were four more shelves stacked high in the hallway. Every time I looked at them I felt faint.

  Adam looked at me with sympathy.

  ‘What about that personal organiser you met?’

  ‘What personal organiser?’

  ‘You know, the woman you interviewed.’

  I had a weekly radio job and, a few weeks before, I’d had a personal organiser called Lissanne as a guest on the show. She’d given me her card and I’d tucked it away in my purse, never intending to call her. It seemed a bit pathetic to admit that I couldn’t tidy up my own house. I avoided Adam’s gaze.

  ‘I don’t want anyone to see my mess.’

  ‘For god’s sake, Corinne, it’s her job. And I’m sure she’s seen worse. Although,’ he considered the script he was holding, ‘not much worse. Did you write this?’

  That afternoon, after chewing one fingernail down to the quick, I rang Lissanne. She was so capable-sounding on the phone that I instantly felt better.

  ‘Of course I’ll come around, Corinne! Now, we won’t get everything done in just one session, but we’ll tackle your biggest problem area and that will get you going, okay?’

  I looked at the desk. ‘You really think three hours is enough?’

  ‘More than enough. Trust me.’

  Two days later, I led Lissanne into my house. Even though the place looked unrecognisable compared to its former state, I had no idea whe
ther my efforts would meet with the approval of a professional. Lissanne was petite, with groovy glasses, vividly dyed red hair and a penchant for vintage clothing. Before I’d met her, my assumption of a personal organiser had been someone in a corporate suit and white gloves, going around people’s houses tut-–tutting about dust on skirting boards and pictures of family members in mismatched frames. Lissanne looked at me and smiled.

  ‘What do you want to tackle?’

  I pointed towards the desk. I expected this diminutive woman to start berating me at any moment for letting my life get so out of control, but instead she looked at the desk, listed off the order of tasks for clearing it, and then, before I really knew what was happening, we had the drawers out and on the dining table and Lissanne was throwing things into a bin.

  ‘There’s a system for getting rid of things,’ she said as we worked. ‘It’s either legitimate paperwork that you need for business reasons, it’s something that needs to be actioned, it’s truly precious, or,’ and here she looked me directly in the eye, ‘it’s rubbish.’ She looked at the stack of old Christmas cards in front of her. ‘This is rubbish.’

  I had kept every greeting card ever sent to me. I had cards from parents, relatives, best friends, old employers, hairdressers and real estate agents. I had wanted to get rid of them, but it felt sort of evil to throw out other people’s best wishes and heartfelt messages. This was what had been holding me back with the paperwork. It wasn’t that I couldn’t let go of it, it was that I wasn’t sure I was allowed to. Now Lissanne was telling me I could. I flicked through the cards and laughingly held one up to Lissanne.

  ‘I guess it says a lot about how little I cook when my local Chinese restaurant sends me a Christmas card from “all their staffs”.’

  I found one from Thomas, back when he was still signing ‘with love’. I shocked myself by realising I was smiling as I looked at it. I had finally got to a point where I could remember our time together with fondness. I kept that one card and we threw out the rest.

  ‘If you find anything else like those cards, you can chuck it without asking first.’

  I could hardly believe I had become the kind of person who was capable of saying things like that.

  Lissanne and I steadily went through everything, talking very little. I didn’t need to Betty-up my possessions anymore and it was surprising how much more quickly we worked if I wasn’t babbling away like an insane person. The only time we spoke was for clarification.

  ‘It looks like rubbish to me, but tell me if I’m wrong.’ Lissanne handed me what appeared to be an old shopping list. God knows how half this paper had ended up in drawers. I must have simply got to a point where there was so much stuff that I hid it away without even looking at it first, as if I was on autopilot.

  Occasionally she would hand me something and I would hesitate. Could I really bring myself to throw out an old stationery set with a picture of Strawberry Shortcake on the front? An aunt had probably given it to me when I was a little girl. Still, there weren’t any specific memories attached to it. I was stranded, weighing up the pros and cons of keeping versus tossing. It was bizarre, I had thought I was past all this. Maybe hoarding was an addiction and I was suffering a mild relapse. Perhaps I’d never really fully be over it. Perhaps I’d have to call myself a reformed hoarder forever, not a cured one.

  ‘Corinne, if you don’t feel an instant connection to it, it’s rubbish.’

  Lissanne snapped me out of my reverie. She was right. I would have come to the same conclusion myself, it just would have taken me five times as long to do so. Lissanne picked things up, glanced at them, and then either threw them away or, very occasionally, added them to the keeping pile. I felt nothing but relief. Lissanne moved with a speed it was a pleasure to witness. Then she picked up something that made her stop completely. She read it in its entirety.

  ‘Uh, Corinne, I’m not sure what to do with this one.’ Lissanne handed me a crumpled piece of paper, covered in a child’s handwriting, avoiding making eye contact with me.

  ‘Perhaps you wrote this when you were little?’ Ever the professional, Lissanne was keeping a straight face and I could not see one glimmer of judgement in her eyes. I smoothed out the paper and read:

  Dear Bruce Springsteen, I have blue eyes and brown/blonde hair. I am 23 years old and crazy about you.

  I love your music and your body. I long to see you in person. If you get this, please, please answer it.

  ‘Um. I definitely wrote this when I was a kid, Lissanne. Definitely. I would have been twelve.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said without looking up, ‘I can see that. The writing. Definitely a child’s.’ She kept sorting.

  I wanted to push the point further, to make sure she knew that I really had written it when I was a kid and not as a completely unhinged adult, but I knew if I kept insisting, I’d only make it worse. I reread the note. This was one of those little time-machine moments. I remembered writing this letter as vividly as if I’d done it yesterday.

  In 1984 Bruce Springsteen had waggled his hips across my parents’ TV singing ‘Dancing in the Dark’ and I had fallen instantly and hopelessly in love. I had taped the video clip and watched it endlessly, hating Courtney Cox for getting to dance with Bruce when all I could do was watch. I had fantasised about marrying him and planned our wedding down to the last detail: I would wear an enormous ivory wedding gown with puffy sleeves, just like the one Princess Diana wore, and as I walked down the aisle, Clarence Clemons would play ‘The Wedding March’ on his saxophone. It was going to be an excellent wedding. Bruce would write a new song just for me and instead of the traditional wedding waltz, we’d re-enact the ‘Dancing in the Dark’ video clip. There would be hot dogs and Golden Gaytimes for the wedding breakfast and on our honeymoon, which was going to be at Dreamworld on the Gold Coast, we would spend long, passionate evenings holed up in our hotel room playing Hungry Hungry Hippos.

  I’d agonised over the best way to get in touch with Bruce. This was obviously the biggest hurdle we had to overcome before we got married: we had to meet each other. There was a telephone in my parents’ bedroom and one day, when Mum was outside hanging up the washing, I snuck into their room and dialled directory assistance. Even though my mother was outside, I was still petrified that I’d get caught. When the phone operator answered, she spoke so loudly that I nearly jumped out my skin.

  ‘Name?’

  I cupped my hand around the receiver and whispered.

  ‘Bruce Springsteen.’

  ‘Who?’

  I glanced nervously at the bedroom door. How could this stupid woman not know who Bruce Springsteen was?

  ‘Broooce Springsteeen,’ I whispered desperately. ‘Ssspringsssteeen.’

  I sounded like a snake.

  ‘Oh . . . I’m sorry . . . this is only a local directory. We don’t do international calls . . .’ And then she hung up. Laughing.

  I slammed down the receiver, burning with shame and vowing never to use directory assistance again. That would teach them.

  My back-up plan was to draw an elaborate picture of Bruce on an envelope, hoping that would make my meagre piece of fan mail stand out amongst all the millions of other letters he must have been receiving. I laboured over it for days and, in the end, I managed quite a passable likeness. It was only as it was finished and I’d carefully written out the postal address for his record label on the front that I decided it was too childish to send. You didn’t meet your future husband by drawing pictures of him; that was the kind of thing an eleven-year-old would do. I was twelve for goodness’ sake. I was worldly.

  Eventually I hit upon the idea of pretending to be an adult. I have no idea why I chose to be twenty-three years old. Maybe I thought a rounded-off number like twenty-five would sound too contrived. It had obviously not occurred to me that the idea of a twenty-three-year-old telling anyone her age was absurd. I’m surprised I didn’t write ‘I am 23 years and two months, and this year I want a birthday cake s
haped like a bunny’. Presumably the stuff about ‘I love your music and your body’ was also an attempt to sound adult. I had no brothers growing up, I’d never seen a naked man. I had probably thought Bruce Springsteen running around in the nuddy would look a bit like a Ken doll.

  I also don’t know what I thought was going to happen if Bruce wrote back. What if he read my letter and thought, ‘Why the hell not? Sure, she has the handwriting of a ten-year-old and that stuff about my body is a bit forward, but she definitely sounds keen and she took the time to write . . . maybe I’ll fly over to Australia and take her out to Pizza Hut.’

  What did I think would happen then? Was I going to pop on a pair of heels and some lipstick and attempt to keep the charade going? Or did I think that when I met him in person my excellent communication skills and mature outlook on life would lead him to overlook not only the age difference, but the My Little Pony T-shirt as well?

  I looked at Lissanne. She was busy with the task at hand. I discreetly dropped the letter onto a chair and kept sorting. It was too funny to throw out and I had to show it to Adam. He’d laugh until he cried.

  Lissanne was tackling an enormous pile of old call sheets and cast lists from shows that I had worked on. She held one up.

  ‘Do you ever read through these?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have copies of the performances on tape somewhere?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why don’t we just keep the first and the last and throw everything else out?’