Just because two walls in my garage were packed from floor to ceiling with crates full of china, stemware, and other tableware treasures did not mean I was a hoarder. I could still park my car in the garage.
Furthermore, every crate was labeled and I had two copies of an Excel worksheet identifying contents, dates purchased, prices paid, and market value. I think that makes me a collector as well as an accountant.
On the other hand, when my second husband held sway over this same garage, he filled it with so much stuff he had to haul the first layer out onto the lawn before he could reach the next layer. He was definitely a hoarder. Everyone agreed, especially after each earthquake when they would call to see if he was dead and buried under a cascade of books, tools, and broken computers.
Yet, in all fairness, that man could tell you what he had stored, where you could find it (assuming you could get to it), and how he planned to use it. Meanwhile, I totally forgot about entire sets of dishes I’d purchased, even though they were labeled and catalogued.
When I began this journal I was certain there was a strong line between collectors (me) and hoarders (him). However, as I write and recall, the lines are beginning to blur.
Perhaps we should start with what drives a person to amass so much stuff that you can’t walk into a room. Much has been written about the hoarder mentality. It seems to derive from childhood trauma and loss. Stuff fills an emotional need.
Hoarders may in fact be the more noble of the two breeds because the foundation of their drive is based on pain and suffering. Don’t take my word for it. Therapists and TV shows are dedicated to helping hoarders overcome the fear of loss that underlies a need to hold onto everything, including ten-year old TV guides.
Collectors, on the other hand, are acquisitive sharks. Wait. That sounds harsh. I meant collectors have an emotional need for completion. For example, dinnerware service for seven is not good enough; you have to own at least eight of every piece made for that design, including auxiliary pieces such as ashtrays and vases. Twelve of everything is better.
There’s a Disturbance in the Force if a piece is missing from a collector’s set of anything. This unease unleashes an unquenchable lust for the hunt. But let’s deal with collectors later and stick to hoarding for a bit.
I’ve noticed that packrats find intrinsic value in every item they own. Those worn out tee-shirts with holes? Don’t throw them away. They can still be used while gardening. The broken printers teetering upon ancient copiers, leaning over a stack of outdated computers? The hoarder knows he or she has the skill to fix them all and make them useful to some deserving and grateful recipient.
The only problem with this logical thinking is that they rarely get around to wearing the fifteen holy tee-shirts or fixing any of the broken equipment. They are too overwhelmed by the mountains of debris to pull something out and start working on it.
If you should happen to meet people who actually repair old stuff and turn it into something usable, such as computer parts Op Art or macrame plant holders woven from old tee-shirts, these folks are not really hoarders. Let’s call them artisans and leave them out of the rest of this conversation.
I used to have the misconception that collectors were neater than hoarders. Collectors create places to display their prizes. Hoarders live in houses you don’t want to enter even if you physically could, right? Wrong.
In all fairness, I have to confess that I only built the tool shed to house my cartons of old dishes because I ran out of shelf space in the house. When I say ran out of space, I mean every cupboard, shelf, and cabinet was stacked with breakables teetering one atop another to the point where I had to stand on a ladder before I could reach the right-sized cake platter.
Meanwhile, my husband the hoarder had his thousands of books neatly displayed on library book racks. When asked repeatedly by an irate wife to get his things out of all public rooms in the house, he was able to shift them into storage units.
So where’s the difference? Where do you draw the line? I have theories. (Who’s surprised?)
I’ve known four hoarders up close and personal. One of them is a recovering packrat. She’s purged and purged over the years until her house looks like a spread in Home and Gardens. She’s a Konmari Maven. The other three had to relinquish their tons of stuff or get evicted. They chose the comfort of a roof over their heads.
There’s a threshold that hoarders face when they try to do battle with their possessions. The first several rounds are hideously painful. Seriously, it’s a stab in the heart.
However, with time and practice, their stash shrinks until it reaches a tipping point, somewhere around 12:15, right after the halfway mark. Then the cascade effect takes hold. They start to feel good about their progress. They can see a light at the end of the prison tunnel that’s held them captive.
Then they can’t wait to finish. They start shoveling stuff into Goodwill bags with glee. Some never stop; they remain on alert, waiting for that one extra tee-shirt to toss. Others settle into a happy clutter that is manageable enough to allow vacuuming and dusting. Hoarders can be cured.
Collectors, on the other hand, are hardwired for life. There is no cure. Oh, sure, we can give away everything we have, but it’s just a matter of time before we start over. I’m living proof of that.
Tableware was not my only collection. Before that it was jewelry-making supplies, in particular seed beads…all the seed beads known to mankind. Prior to that it was sewing supplies, any that were ever produced. During the 2-3 year period of any current obsession I spend more time acquiring supplies than using them.
Why? It’s back to that acquisitive nature and the thrill of the hunt. Finding, searching, tracking down, buying…they all give an emotional zest to life, a reason to get up in the morning. They make you want to leap up at 5 am on Saturday so you can be first in line at garage sales where who knows what treasures await you for $10?
Hoarding leads to depression, or it’s the result of depression, but collecting leads to high adventure. We collectors are the Indiana Jones of junk.
That being said, last year I decided that since I no longer hosted dinner parties nor could I lift the bins in my garage, I would give it all away, everything but what conveniently fit in my house. I decided my new obsession would be empty shelves.
For months, I shipped, delivered, and donated. The final nineteen bins were carted off by a handyman because the thrift stores told me to please not bring them anything more. All I had left was tableware I loved, could access, and would use.
The only problem was that when I unpacked them, I discovered two of the sets were incomplete. I now had to purchase just a few more pieces from EBay. Why? You know why. I’m a collector. Any maybe a little obsessive. (Stop laughing.)
It’s not that bad. I made a new friend when I bought all her 1940s Tia Juana set. (I thought my daughter wanted the 3-4 cups and saucers I had of that pattern, so wouldn’t it be nice to surprise her with service for 10?)
Also, there are six soup bowls floating somewhere between here and England. They’ve been floating for over a year, but you never know. It’s possible I may find a battered cardboard box sitting on my front porch some day and then I’ll be able to relax because I’ll have eight Singapore Bird coupe bowls made only in England, instead of just two.
Meanwhile, there are some sewing machine parts I need to order.