got home, there it was, the same mag- azine, on my nightstand. How could I have done that? What a waste of money. But I did it. Had to have it — again. As the class stared at me, probably
wondering what planet I had arrived from, my sense of ease slipped away. I wanted to be anywhere but in that class- room. I crossed my legs, then uncrossed them. I took a drink from a bottle of water. Then it hit me: What if I really am a hoarder? I shot a quick glance at my cellphone to see how much time was left in class — 45 minutes. Yet it was also a moment of deep clarity. Then a student asked the question I
had secretly been hoping for: Have you told your wife that you think you might be a hoarder? The money question! My chance at innocence! I have a condition, Megan. I’m not a slob. I’m a hoarder. I sat straight up, cleared my throat
and delivered my response, which I had been rehearsing in my head for days: “I think it is hoarding. She thinks I’m lazy. So there’s a huge disconnect. She’s also a physician; I didn’t mention that. She’s a family doctor, so she sees a lot of mental health issues. Her perception of hoard- ing is the Oprah image, which is, let’s go into somebody’s house and see the things toppling over them. What I’ve learned is that, yes, that is hoarding, but there is another way of getting toppled over on yourself and your relationships.” The rest of the class felt like a blur. I
was there but not there. I was in my bed- room, on top of that pile, looking back at myself lying on my bed, staring at it all. I was on the dining room table, looking out at myself from under a pile of news- papers. I was in a bookstore, watching myself walk around, looking at books that made me feel more like me. “We have run out of time,” Frost fi-
nally said. “Thank you, Mike. This is very brave, very courageous.” Then he whispered in my ear: “Let’s
go back to my office. I want to make sure you are okay.” I told him I was. That night, I barely slept.
I took my shIrt off. my wIfe AskeD, “What are you doing?” I said I was get- ting ready to clean. “Does your shirt have to be off to
clean?” she asked. “I’m thinking I might sweat,” I explained. She said, “I hope you do.” I took three Advils. I assumed a head-
ache was inevitable. We stood in the dining room, clearing what remained of the junk I had begun disposing a couple days before. I said, “I need to set my lineup for my
fantasy football team.” She answered, rather loudly, “You’re
doing what that book says I shouldn’t let you do.” Megan was referring to Frost’s book
— the self-help part, where he helps reformed hoarders overcome what he calls “the bad guys” that get in the way of organization. This was the “It’s not my priority” bad guy, found on page 139: “If you find that other things start to seem more important to you than sorting and organizing, stop and reassess your goals and priorities. Are these other things true emergencies that you really must attend to right now?” I told my wife the fantasy team lineup was important. She remind- ed me I was in last place in my league. We moved upstairs to the leaning
tower of books and the nearby piles of magazines. We made two new piles: go- away and keep. We used the bed as our sorting station. I asked, “Do you want to turn on the
TV?” She said, very lovingly, “I want a new husband.” We were off to a splendid start. She
began digging into the pile next to my bed and said, “Oh, a pair of shoes.” I said, “I was looking for those.” She said nothing. Then we started through the books.
Of the first five books we examined, three were identical to volumes I already had downstairs. The very thought of putting one of them on the go-away pile gave me heartburn. Another Frost bad guy had arrived — the “Unhelpful beliefs
r: “I felt as if I might cry. I blurted this at would I be without it all?’ ”
about your stuff ” one. “I feel so attached to these things!” states the definition of this bad guy. “But all this stuff is useful!” I turned to page 149: “How many do I al- ready have, and is that enough?” I said to myself: “Two.” I also told
myself that the book I already had was the same, word for word, as this one. It went in the go-away pile. This didn’t feel as bad as I had
thought it would. I kept telling myself, This stuff isn’t me. If it all disappeared in a fire, my body would not implode, my identity wouldn’t turn to ashes. I would emerge, walking out the front door with soot on my face, the same person I was before the flames, only without the stuff. The stuff was not me, the stuff was not me — it felt like some self-help mantra. The more I told myself that story, the easier the tossing became. We went on like this for an hour in the bedroom. For every book I kept, I let five more go. Every time I showed signs of indecisiveness, my wife said: “Do you really need this? Are you going to die without it?” The result was three boxes for the Salvation Army. As I carried the boxes to the car, I
thought about a question I was asked in Frost’s class: “What’s your fantasy about how you want your living space to look?” I said: “I love hotels, and when I
go into a hotel room, I love how clean it is, and I love the orderliness of it. I guess most of all I just don’t want to be nagged anymore. I don’t want to be stressed out by it anymore.” When I went back upstairs, my night-
stand was clean, and the floor around my bed revealed carpet I hadn’t seen in months. It didn’t look like a hotel room, but it was close, at least to my eyes. We cleaned up my stuff throughout the house. It took all day and into the next one. I told my wife how much I liked everything clean, and she reminded me that I have cleaned before, only to relapse. I vowed this time would be different. She said, “I hope so.” I said to myself: “I know why I do
this now. I’ve got this figured out.” Two weeks later, the piles were
back.
Michael S. Rosenwald is a Washington Post staff writer. He can be reached at
rosenwaldm@washpost.com.
June 13, 2010| The WashingTon PosT Magazine 19
Page 1 |
Page 2 |
Page 3 |
Page 4 |
Page 5 |
Page 6 |
Page 7 |
Page 8 |
Page 9 |
Page 10 |
Page 11 |
Page 12 |
Page 13 |
Page 14 |
Page 15 |
Page 16 |
Page 17 |
Page 18 |
Page 19 |
Page 20 |
Page 21 |
Page 22 |
Page 23 |
Page 24 |
Page 25 |
Page 26 |
Page 27 |
Page 28 |
Page 29 |
Page 30 |
Page 31 |
Page 32 |
Page 33 |
Page 34 |
Page 35 |
Page 36 |
Page 37 |
Page 38 |
Page 39 |
Page 40 |
Page 41 |
Page 42 |
Page 43 |
Page 44 |
Page 45 |
Page 46 |
Page 47 |
Page 48 |
Page 49 |
Page 50 |
Page 51 |
Page 52 |
Page 53 |
Page 54 |
Page 55 |
Page 56 |
Page 57 |
Page 58 |
Page 59 |
Page 60 |
Page 61 |
Page 62 |
Page 63 |
Page 64 |
Page 65 |
Page 66 |
Page 67 |
Page 68 |
Page 69 |
Page 70 |
Page 71 |
Page 72 |
Page 73 |
Page 74 |
Page 75 |
Page 76 |
Page 77 |
Page 78 |
Page 79 |
Page 80 |
Page 81 |
Page 82 |
Page 83 |
Page 84 |
Page 85 |
Page 86 |
Page 87 |
Page 88 |
Page 89 |
Page 90 |
Page 91 |
Page 92 |
Page 93 |
Page 94 |
Page 95 |
Page 96 |
Page 97 |
Page 98 |
Page 99 |
Page 100 |
Page 101 |
Page 102 |
Page 103 |
Page 104 |
Page 105 |
Page 106 |
Page 107 |
Page 108 |
Page 109 |
Page 110 |
Page 111 |
Page 112 |
Page 113 |
Page 114 |
Page 115 |
Page 116 |
Page 117 |
Page 118 |
Page 119 |
Page 120 |
Page 121 |
Page 122 |
Page 123 |
Page 124 |
Page 125 |
Page 126 |
Page 127 |
Page 128 |
Page 129 |
Page 130 |
Page 131 |
Page 132 |
Page 133 |
Page 134 |
Page 135 |
Page 136 |
Page 137 |
Page 138 |
Page 139 |
Page 140 |
Page 141 |
Page 142 |
Page 143 |
Page 144 |
Page 145 |
Page 146 |
Page 147 |
Page 148 |
Page 149 |
Page 150 |
Page 151 |
Page 152 |
Page 153 |
Page 154 |
Page 155 |
Page 156 |
Page 157 |
Page 158