Still Unpacking: Sadness can surface

Yes, it has been nine months (almost to the day) since I closed escrow on my house.* And there are still boxes to be unveiled. I have managed to make my living room, sunroom, master bedroom, office, kitchen and dining area box-free, and mostly put together.** The guest room still has some piles, but is box-free. The basement is the biggest sore spot; it's four big rooms and multiple cupboards and shelves have become the tossing zone for stuff and things that have no permanent home, and boxes that haven't been unpacked.

In a previous post, there were many boxes I packed poorly at the last minutes of my moving.*** As I predicted, the boxes packed during the panic stage**** are the ones stubbornly sitting in the basement bedrooms. Now, however, it has become necessary for these rooms to be addressed.^ I am opening, emptying, sorting, and trashing boxes, and am surprised how many were already emptied and repacked with bubble paper.

One box, however, contained an especially odd assortment: my dad's senior portrait^*, a painting done by a long-dead relative, a plague^*^ from a long-gone-ex, and my last doll from my antique doll collection.^** She was wrapped in bubble paper, but in hind-sight, I see the error of her packing and wonder how I came to make the decision to put her on top of an otherwise rectangular-shaped box. Did I really think some newspaper would be enough to cushion the weight of crazy-college-boy stacking?

As you can see in the picture, she crushed. Her rubber body disintegrated, setting her legs free. Her head is intact and as cute as she was when I had to buy her. Now I am not sure what to do with her. The dump seems too cruel^***, but I don't think rubber and crazy glue will work well. I'm considered burying her in the yard.

*I never say "bought my house" because that implies ownership, as in, "I own a house." My hefty mortgage adamantly defies this truth.
**For some reason, the walls are still bare-naked. I have framed art leaning all over the place, but nothing is hung except on the random nails left by the previous owner, which are all wrong.
***When I moved from California, I packed the truck myself, taking much time and care, then paid students to unpack it. For some dumb reason, I paid students to pack the truck in Indiana, then unpacked it myself in Montana. I had a total of 4 small items break between California and Indiana. I have lost many small and large things in the move from Indiana to Montana. While the hired students loaded my truck, I frantically packed.
**** If you read that link, you would know the panic stage is the last stage of packing, which occurs "the 24-36 hours prior to move when you realize you aren't ready, physically or emotionally. You may or may not be able to pack during this time. What you do pack is all thrown in a box which you will never unpack after move. It contains things like CDs, wash clothes, magazines, hair clips, sponges, remote controls, silverware, socks, vacuum bags, unpaid bills, film, etc."
^The reasons can be a whole other post. Let's leave it for now, that I am renting a room in my basement, and need to tidy up.
^*a gorgeous 11x14 fiber and hand-tinted black and white print.
^*^ this should say "plaque", but "plague" seems appropriate.
^**To clarify that I haven't become an old lady (something that could also be another post--remind me to talk about the struggle I have with vintage kitsch and old-lady-cutter), I collected a few antique bed dolls for a while, which eventually went on eBay. The one I held onto is an American Characters doll that had been well-loved and worn, with a plastic head and rubber body.
^***Oh my gosh, that scene in Toy Story 3 was so upsetting! Like the miscarriage scene in Up, it reveled in the most terrible sadnesses adults face, and slipped them casually into a kid's flick. The kids might not get it, but the parents are sobbing for the humanity of it.