During my youth, I liked to think of myself as a collector. I held great pride in showing off my various collections to visitors. I had collections of old diaries; collections of my late husband’s furniture; collections of newspaper cuttings that I saved over time; all had a sweet smell of antiquity and wisdom.
Basically, everything and anything that seized my interest was chosen to be honoured with a place in my collections. Then came a time when my house seemed to shrink to accommodate my interests. After all, I believed I was a collector by profession!
Hoarding Going Out Of Hands
Once my piles touched the ceiling, I decided to expand my empire to the garage. Since our old car already had a dead engine that only made a hissing sound, the seats, trunk and leg space became home to stacks of magazines, files and newspapers. At first, I was uncertain about letting my treasured collections rest on the bare floor.
But the lack of space left me no choice. All the kitchen appliances, bottle caps, table mats, table runners, old shoes and hand bags were stacked in a heap on the corners of the garage. As each year went by, the piles took a step forward until I had to step onto the cherished notebooks, mails and diaries to reach the farthest piles.
There was a time when stacks of sullen yellowing papers were piled in my washroom just beside my toilet seat, and I would use them instead of toilet paper when I ran out of it. Sometimes I would stumble upon my husband’s old moth-eaten suits and ties lying in a heap beside my bed in the morning. I liked having them there because it made his presence felt.
Surprise Christmas Visits
Last year, my daughter paid me a visit during Christmas holidays. I was so excited to see her standing in the doorway with my three little grand children.
But to my utter disappointment, she let out a scream before letting me hug her. It was then that I realized I may have a psychological problem. She coerced me into seeing a psychiatrist while she herself was on a mission to get rid of all my hard-earned collections. I was diagnosed of a compulsive disorder which labeled by passion as hoarding.
As much as it hurt me to admit, my passion had become harmful for me. After 8 months of therapy, I began to see where I went wrong. But I still wish I had realized this before so some of my favorite garments or furniture could have gone into deserving hands.
Don’t Delay Getting Your Hoarding Checked!
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