When OCD and Depression Collide

In the decade of the 1990s and early 2000s, I was the sole reason that manila folder companies like Mead were living high on the hog.  I filed everything.  In December (or February depending on the year), the year's files went from our file cabinet into a box, lovingly numbered with the year.  Alphabetized files?  Yes.  Everything one could possibly want to save?  Yes.  An organized hoarder?  Yes.

In 2007, when the rubber hit the road and depression knocked me on my ass, I really think the depression was having a bitch-slap festival with my self-diagnosed OCD.  I have filed NOTHING since then.  I have a stack in my basement that is waiting to be filed.  Important papers have been placed in various baskets.  However, if we needed a paper, my former self would have known which box and file to look in to locate it in 20 seconds flat.  Now, there's a pile somewhere.

Do the math.  I was married in 1992...when this file frenzy began.  I did this until 2007.  That's about FIFTEEN boxes.  They are now stacked in my garage, awaiting being hauled away by a shredding company. Enter depression again.  It's much easier to sit down and stare at a computer screen (and I mean stare) than to go through these boxes to remove anything vital (yes, Mother, I found your living will!).  So, I realized I needed help.  I asked Scott to bring just one box in at a time to let me go through.  So far, three boxes have been gone through.  Here are some snippets of conversation:

"Did you ever transfer your 401K from KARMAK?"

"I don't know."

"What is this life insurance policy?  Is it still active?"

"I don't know."

The list goes on and on.

And in the time that I have taken to write this?  Another box bit the dust.

So, I guess my message is sometimes, depression has to be looked square in the eye and told to f-off or pay rent.

May this year be the year that I start scanning stuff and getting rid of paper copies of what I do not need.  Maybe.  Or maybe I should just celebrate getting through these boxes.