I am not...
I know the above statement is so simple and straight forward, yet it has tripped me up almost my whole life. Perhaps it is because of the transference my mother bestowed upon me that any issue or flaw she saw within herself she felt it necessary to accuse me of as well. Yes, she told me as a child how the family thought I was fat. She told me that they disliked me and only tolerated me because of my grandmother. And those were truths. About her. Even now, although I am further beyond this now, I struggle with the fear that some day a magic switch is going to be activated and my home will become a hoard. Nevermind that I obsess day and night about the cleanliness of my home. You know...NO! I no longer obsess. I am not my mother. I do not struggle with letting go of things. I cling to memories inside of me, and if a "thing" truly triggers a deep reaction I evaluate why before I keep it. I keep cards but I don't have a lot. I have a few gifts my beloved grandmother gave me