You show up
at the meeting because your daughter urged you to go. You hear her voice even now, like pieces of Styrofoam
deliberately being rubbed together or an unexpected chainsaw going off in your
backyard: “Mom, we can’t visit you with
the house being like that. You have a real problem.”
She didn’t
use the “H” word this time, you are relieved about that. You like to call yourself a packrat or
clutterer or even messy and disorganized.
Those words don’t have such far-reaching implications as the “H” word.
Hoarders are sick people.
You are not
sick. You are a collector.
“My name is
Phyllis, and I’m a clutterer,” you whisper.
The group nods encouragingly, they seem nice. If they have a problem with too much stuff,
you can’t tell. They look normal.
But what
exactly is normal? Is it normal to
celebrate Christmas at a local hotel because the house is too full of stuff and
no one can sit anywhere? Is it normal to
call a contractor to add shelves to every room in your 3000 square foot home so
you can cram in more things?
You don’t
have a problem, you tell yourself. This
is Tammy’s issue. If she doesn’t want to come with her kids to
see you, that is her problem.
“Welcome,
Phyllis,” they smile. This is their rainbow: they will
get their houses clean, their offices organized, their cars empty enough
for a passenger to sit. If they work
hard enough, they can throw things away.
They can live like normal people.
“Phyllis,
what did you do today?” the leader asks
encouragingly.
You clear
your throat. You were not expecting to
be called on. This is just like third
grade. Third grade is when your dad
died, so maybe it is not like third grade.
“I cleaned
out a drawer in my kitchen,” you offer tentatively. Applause all around. “I even recycled a few papers.”
They beam at
you, they understand. Tammy can go to
hell.
MOV
***
