- One who hoards; one who accumulates, collects, and stores.
I'm fairly certain I'm a hoarder...
Not in that way that makes people vomit, that box-up-rotten-food-and-used-tissues-just-in-case-I-need-them kind of way. But more in that I-still-have-clothes-from-my-senior-year-in-high-school kind of way...
I have boxes and boxes full of shit. Every one of them labeled "memories". Not small boxes. Not shoe boxes. Moving boxes. Full. Of. Memories. 90% of which I don't even remember. There are things in these boxes that I assume were important to me at one point in my 30 years. Notes from people I didn't know I was friends with, movie stubs from movies I didn't know I'd seen, Mardi Gras beads and yet I don't recall having ever been to Mardi Gras, corsage ribbons, pom poms, Playbills, charm bracelets, plane tickets, tourist pamphlets, costumes, yearbooks, pictures, uniforms, old magazines... There is no limit to what I will pack up and slap a "memory" label on... It's a sickness.
I have billing statements from accounts that have long since closed. I have receipts from gifts I was given on my 23rd birthday. I have wrapping paper scraps from 7 Christmases ago. I have old cell phones and remote controls to electronics I no longer own.
I have over 100 pairs of shoes. I have 99 tank tops (I just counted) and I live in SEATTLE. I have jeans in every size I've ever been. I have socks that forever sit at the bottom of the drawer because they have so many holes they no longer serve their intended purpose.
I am a hoarder. But I hoard only the best.
I have gotten better in the past few years. I moved in May and threw out TRUCK LOADS of rubbish. And my mom and I recently emptied out one of our storage units at which point I discarded every "memory" that I didn't actually remember.
I'm not sure when or where this compulsion was born. I do know that I've always hated goodbyes. I've never dealt well with change. But I have an amazing memory. I remember things that no one cares to. I remember events and names and experiences and trivia. I remember old phone numbers and the subway I took to get from Times Square to Queens. I remember so well that I am the go-to-gal for everyone else's lost memories.
So why all the shit?
And I guess a part of me fears the day I can no longer remember. When it all goes away. When there is too much life between me and my teens. Too much time standing in the way of my childhood. A teeny tiny part of me feels that if I don't remember than no one will.
But really, with the old receipts and wrapping paper scraps...? Someone call A&E... this bitch needs an intervention...