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When Minimalism Takes Over Your Life
As a compulsive minimalist, I can’t stop throwing things away — even when I know I’ll regret it
Content Warning: This piece discusses domestic violence and eating disorders.
A couple of years ago, my partner saved my cello from the scrap heap by taking it into the theater where he works. He must have known it was at risk. He knows how I am. I don’t think I ever said it explicitly, but I was on the verge of throwing the beautiful instrument out.
Well, not throwing it out. Giving it away. Donating it. Hastily. Maybe doing a Craigslist Curb Alert. I didn’t want to go to the trouble of finding and vetting a new owner for the cello. I just wanted the cello gone. One evening, I offered it to a stranger in a bar. She seemed genuinely interested, so I gave her my phone number. But she was very drunk and must have forgotten, because I never heard from her.
The cello had done nothing to deserve my disregard. It was still as lovely as when I’d gotten it in high school. Its finish was still a gorgeous reddish brown; its sound was still rich, and mournfully sad. Fifteen years had passed yet it remained exactly the right size for me, three-fourths the height of an adult instrument. But it occupied space and I was vaguely stressed, so I felt moved to purge…
