Another Man's Treasure? - (Yes, this is my descriptive essay!)

Another Man’s Treasure?

As of late, I have become intensely interested in compulsive hoarding. Psychology, and various irregularities within it, has always been of keen interest to me. However, that ‘close to home’ feeling hits fairly strong when it comes to compulsive hoarding. I can recall at least a handful of people I care for who have displayed some of these behaviors, with varying severity. No, I did not grow up in a home piled floor-to ceiling with boxes of trinkets and papers and other ‘treasures’, but I know people who did and I’ve seen it firsthand. I must say, at this point, not only does it sadden me; it absolutely fascinates me.
Compulsive hoarding is defined by Wikipedia as “the acquisition of, and failure to use or discard such a large number of seemingly useless posessions that it causes significant clutter and impairment to basic living activities such as mobility, cooking, cleaning, showering, or sleeping.” This is a good definition, because not only does it describe the behavior, it describes the consequences of such. Compulsive hoarders, as I have come to understand, identify themselves as their possessions. When a hoarder’s house is emptied, it is as if their heart is emptied with it.
A sad little familiarity strikes me when I watch things on television about hoarders and see some of the homes piled full of ‘treasures’. I remember a friend I had in my childhood; we will call her Marie for the sake of anonymity. I was sure she had everything: a bigger house than mine, more clothes and toys than I had, infinite food (rarely of the healthy variety) in the kitchen and even sprawling out onto the back porch. I was never at loss for any of those things, it just seemed that everything I had, she had more of. Obviously, I was a little jealous, but as time passed and I grew older, I began to feel sympathy replace my envy.
Every surface of their home was covered with, for lack of a better word, stuff. Their kitchen table and chairs were all piled high with Halloween candy, clothes, trinkets, Christmas decorations, and anything else you could readily imagine. There existed a spare bedroom in which Marie used to practice piano (one of her many short-lived hobbies) that grew so full of toys and clothes and collectibles it could not be used for anything other than storage. Their hallways were lined with boxes full of souvenirs and papers they “might need someday”, limiting the walking area to strictly what was necessary.
Marie’s bedroom was always in squalor, full of so many things that she could never use. The clothing she had so much of filled the closet, the dressers (there were two), and several boxes. She was a girl whose parents indulged in her short-lived but passionate hobbies, such as clarinet (she played through two years of middle school and no more), painting (an easel sat abused in the corner after a use or two), knitting (yarn snaked over her bed, the floor, and even sometimes into the hallway; I am still not sure that she ever completed a project), and reading (unread volumes spilled out from the bookshelf onto the floor , into even more boxes, and under the bed).
Their garage was another cesspool, in which no cars were parked. It was full of boxes (they must have bought them wholesale) that contained Marie’s childhood toys that had made it out of the house, more and more trinkets and ‘gifts’, Christmas trees (note the plural form), and anything else they could fit there that wasn’t crammed into their home. Marie was one of the few lucky enough to have a playhouse; hers was even two-story and had air-conditioning! The only catch was that she couldn’t utilize it, for stuffed animals, play kitchens, and ‘science experiments’ prevented it from any real meaningful use.
Most compulsive hoarders are different than Marie’s family, in that they are typically lower income. The ‘treasures’ they save are usually picked through from garbage, bought secondhand, or handed down from a friend or relative. Marie’s family was a different breed; everything in their home was brand new. The problem seemed to be that every time Marie’s mother (or, eventually, Marie herself) saw something she that caught her eye, she bought it instead of just appreciating its existence. The lines of need and want were blurred and undefined within their family, and eventually want engulfed need.
So, while Marie did have a bigger house and more things than I did, I came to realize quantity wasn’t always as important as quality. The façade of Marie’s family as a picture-perfect Norman Rockwell painting has dissolved with time and wisdom. I have finally stopped seeing her as a fairy princess in her castle, and I’ve finally come to see her family for what they truly are: prisoners in their own lavish home.