Ever watch that show Hoarders? I caught my first episode during summer reruns and thought it was fascinating television. By the time the new season premiere rolled around, I was hooked. Since then I have come to a conclusion and it ain’t pretty: I’m a compulsive hoarder in the making. Or perhaps I am one as we so-to-speak (there’s nothing like a good case of denial to get the ball rolling like a wad of tin foil added to and added to over the years ‘til it’s good for nothing but a potential hole in the floor—just in case one might need to peel off an ancient piece and use it to store your ABC gum for future use).
For years I have hoarded books (if I read it and even mildly enjoyed it, I saved it for my now-real-but-once-fictional daughter—sadly, she’s only interested in books about vampires), dolls (for same daughter who couldn’t care less), pretty dishes (ditto or is that trio?) and Christmas decorations (an example of such is the photo of the cute house I bought after Christmas last year and need far, far less than a hole in the head provided said hole is to facilitate the much needed lobotomy) (plus, daughter hates clutter AND Christmas) (sorta--she just hates the music and the cluttery decor) (the present part she likes just fine) (too bad she’s not getting much of that this year) (do you get the feeling my daughter and I are like two ships passing in the night?) (sigh).
As one can imagine, this has kind of killed the appeal of the show for me. Now I watch it (cause I hafta) with a pit in my stomach and a mingled expression of horrified fascination and self-pity. I gaze around my little home and suddenly that pile of home school materials that dwells on the living room floor (it has no home of its own) takes on a sinister appearance. The small mountain of bagged items that were once eBay fodder but have little chance of selling this season/this year/‘til the cows come home due to the economy that I can’t bring myself to get rid of because they might have sold for big money once upon a time looks like a pile of pure denial. The papers and other minutia, worn out and homeless, that litter the kitchen counter resemble nothing more than a pile of trash. (It is a pile of trash but let’s not split hairs.) Even the dog, splayed on the floor like a tacky, white(ish—she needs a bath) fur rug, seems like something that really oughta go.
The important distinction here is that people become hoarders due to/via their anxiety, something which I seem to have more and more of each and every day. Now, THAT I can get rid of (or not. Whaddya think? Any takers? I hate to think of it going unwanted and wasted. It really should have a good home. Ah, nuts, maybe I’ll just hang onto it . . . just in case. You never know when you might need it.)
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