Clutter. Or Lack There of.
With my staple tank tops, jeans, and flip flops, I suspect I have the appearance of someone who would have crate furniture covered in candles, magazines, and a Rubix cube, with walls heavily adorned by Bob Marley tapestries. However, my apartment furnishings are bit more cosmo than that, and perhaps here's why?
Growing up my mother had nothing. Or about as close as you can get to nothing, and still maintain a pulse. Her father was a compulsive gambler, her mother an alcoholic. Consequently she has surrounded herself with "junk", as she refers to it. This brick-a-brack serves as a buffer, protecting her and her intense intimacy issues. She remains tied to the coming and going, receiving, and purging of various books, tools, knick knacks, glass wares, what have you. Thereby rendering her unavailable to move closer to her children, travel, or even just take some time (and space) to make a friend to dine with.
Because I grew up with her "junk", I have contrarily taken the less is more approach to living. As a tiny little gift from god, feng shui immigrated to North America and gives me a wonderful rationale for being borderline obsessive/compulsive. I remember being told my "orderliness" was about trying to control that which I could, to over compensate for the lack of control I felt in my current life, as well as my upbringing.
It's unfortunate that people take on shame no matter where they are on a particular issue. I believe my mother feels ashamed of her literal baggage. And I have been invited to feel shame about my innate talent for organizing. I've been called a "neat freak" and "neurotic". One particularly bitchy, former friend of mine let me know that she thinks that my "decorating style is so sterile".
However we respond to what we had or didn't have in childhood is usually understandable and often appropriate.