Just Like Them
He bent down to try to get a better look at her. “I don’t understand. Why is our stuff sitting outside on the curb?”
“Did you know 3 million people are obsessive hoarders? Think about our piles of books, the old copies of The New Yorker, the shelf in the bedroom with sweaters just spilling off of it, the hanging pots, the coffee mugs filled with our utensils, the papers, papers, papers stacked in barely balanced piles all over the desk. The visual noise of our stuff is killing me. I see it every day. They say hoarders like to be able to see their stuff. And we do. We leave it all sitting out. Just like those people on the show Hoarders.
“It’s horrible. I sat there watching it, and the more I saw of these people’s homes, the more I saw them struggle to throw things out, the more I saw their stacks and stacks of stuff, the way I saw their stuff control their lives, the more I looked around at our home, the home we are trying to make, the home we may end up having a child in, and I saw it. We’re hoarders too. We’re just like them.”
As she kept talking, Greg’s shoulders slumped forward and his jaw loosened with surprise, awe and guilt. He did this to her. He had put so much pressure on her to calm down, to be more easygoing, to control her fervent temper, to tone down her exhaustingly high level of anxiety and enthusiasm that she took his advice and went to a psychiatrist. And when she came home saying that the psychiatrist suggested she start on mood-stabilizing medication, Wellbutrin, he had urged her to take the doctor’s prescription. That was about 9 days ago.
“We live among piles and piles and piles of stuff sitting out. We don’t throw it away because we think it has value. Because we can manufacture some circumstance that we’d use it or need it or struggle without it.”
This last phrase shifted Greg’s mind from the macro–their relationship, her personality, his role, their compatibility, his guilt—to the micro, to the argument at hand. “Wait, wait, wait. We are not hoarders. Some of this stuff, most of this stuff we do need! How are we going to iron our clothes without the ironing board?”
“On a towel on the coffee table.”
“And the coffee maker. How will we make coffee?”
“We’ll use that small French Press your mother got us.”
“And boil the water? And put it on timer for the morning?” He argued.
“You don’t get it do you,” she said. “We keep stuff we don’t need because we think it has value. Like what about the old CD burner, printer stand, and leather jacket we wanted to sell on craigslist but never have. Are we really ever going to spend the time to do it? Are they really worth hanging on to just in case taking pictures of them and posting them on craigslist is our top priority one day? We’re never going to do that! Who are we kidding? We’re busy! We work like 40 hours a week or more. Why is our garbage worth so much to us? Why can’t we just get rid of things? Half the time when I grab a pen from the desk, it doesn’t work! We keep junk! How can we live like this?”
Greg tried to get her to listen and agree with his point using another tactic.
“How can we live like what? We have a small-ass apartment. We live in Manhattan. We have no storage. We have one, small closet. We don’t even have a kitchen drawer! We have no place to put anything away. This is how everyone lives in New York who isn’t fucking rich enough to have storage. Let me put it to you this way. Were those people on the show living in Manhattan? No! I’ve seen that show. They always live in homes with multiple closets, bedrooms, a basement, a yard, all filled with stuff! Don’t you get the difference?”
“Do not belittle me. You’re not taking me seriously. As if New Yorkers can’t be hoarders.”
“Not taking you seriously? I know you’re quite serious. My bike, my Trek bicycle worth like $800 is sitting outside unlocked like a piece of garbage. The whole neighborhood is probably out there going through our stuff like they just won the freaking lottery.”
“You never use the bike. Maybe once in the last six months. Seriously we keep it in the freaking living room like a piece of furniture and you never use it. You just like the idea of having a bike to ride. You’re attached to the idea of possessing it. Just like a hoarder.”
“I’m not a hoarder.”
“Yes, you are and I am too. We enable each other. It’s true. Our stuff is everywhere. Every single inch of flat space is covered with something. Stacks of this. Piles of that. It’s just out of control.”
“You’re out of control,” he said.
“Yes! That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
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January 7th, 2010 at 10:58 am
I just discover your website, and it is a real pleasure to read yours stories.