Let me get this straight: Hoardiculture

To everybody here who has difficulties with decisions.

Welcome!

Yes, welcome, my fellow princesses and princes of Denmark!

Let us be clear!

To be, or not to be, that is the question

To keep, or not to keep,

To throw away or to store,

That is the question.

We do not as yet, have a diagnosis,

We do not, as yet, share a pathology,

We do not, as yet, have a syndrome,

We do not as yet, have an assessment,

We do not as yet, have a pathway,

Our own little `Disorders’,

Will only become medical,

When we have so much stuff that,

We can't get out of the door,

Or others can't get in.

But that is not us!

Not yet, Oh no! No, no.

Our living spaces haven't become so sufficiently cluttered

‘So as to preclude activities

To which those spaces were designed’,

Oh no, not yet!

What a relief!

Come in friends!

Our rooms and halls are as clean as our consciences,

If clutter is the defining characteristic,

Directly tied to the functional deficit,

Associated with the `Symptom’

The `Symptom’ of `Hoarding’

We are saved!

Indeed, our own possessions

Are what we work,

And strive for,

So, can I have my book back please?

You have had it a little too long!

You know that I have an emotional attachment,

To this object,

It has a human-like status and must be protected from harm.

By protecting our possessions,

We are,

As I'm sure, you will all agree?

Merely protecting ourselves!

But my fellow Princesses and Princess,

We are not hoarders,

Oh no! no!, no, tut, tut

We have other titles (ha ha),

Oh yes, other names,

Collectors perhaps,

None of us here has persistent difficulties,

Discarding or parting

With our possessions,

(Goodbye! Sob, sob).

Regardless of their actual value

(How much? Why did you throw that away?)

We just save,

Because things cost too much

We like picking things up,

And if we do keep your book,

A little too long.

This difficulty is due,

To our perceived need to save it.

So don’t think of the distress,

Associated with losing it.

Like when you lost your phone!

But anyway, we hardly ever lose things, do we?

Do we?

There is no psychopathology, going on,

Oh no, no, no.

Our home is our castle,

It hath a pleasant seat,

Our keys kept on appropriate rings,

We only buy things that are ‘Useful’,

For contingency, you know.

Or we only buy objects,

That have a direct connection,

To our sense of self.

Our inner reality,

Like that beautiful red vase,

From Greenwich Antiques Market,

The very same vase that you knocked over

And broke,

Remember?

On Valentine's Day?

My anger was justified then,

You were so clumsy,

With my vase.

Of course, we would all be incandescent with rage!

At the loss!

But none of us here,

Contribute to obsessively controlling

And withholding behavior,

Resulting in the possessiveness of objects?

We would just like the book back, please!

OK, I do admit,

We are a little bit obsessive

About some things,

But obsessive-compulsive behavior?

Oh (1) no (2) no (3) no (4), no (5) no (6), no (7), no (8), no (9), no (10), no (1), no (2), no (3) …

I only check the cooker, my dear,

Several times,

Because you persist in leaving it on!

Despite my notes, entreaties and plans,

if we are a (little bit) obsessive compulsive,

Saving and storing,

Switching off and checking,

Forgive us!

We are only human.

It stems from our own early childhood experiences

Of deprivation, poverty, and trauma

Although actually we experienced none,

of these.

But we do save because of fear

Not that we are fearful,

You understand?

Just a little bit scared!

But let's leave these philosophical discussions!

My worthy friends, my titled acquaintances,

To be, or not to be, that is the question,

And we are not hoarders,

No, no, no.

We are complete professionals, titled, registered

Let us all take arms, then!

Against this sea of hoarding troubles,

And as `Professionals’ visit the ‘undiscovered country of the hoarder’.

Let us go on a Home Visit.

And here I am,

At the home.

You are the hoarder,

And I am?

I need a title.

So, social worker, will do;

but it could be an Environmental Health Officer, floating support worker, GP, Occupational therapist, Police, LAS,

And here I am,

And here we are,

At four o'clock in the afternoon

But it could be time before,

or time after.

In this place

It is cold in here,

It is a nipping and eager air.

But what is that smell?

Decayed fruit and other things,

I cannot possibly mention.

Certainly not perfume from Arabia,

We can't see the bathroom,

or the kitchen floor,

In this place,

Your home.

A place of disaffection,

According to the emails from health colleagues,

According to the multiple calls from neighbours,

According to the letters from the landlord,

According to the notices from environmental health officers,

Oh, look the London Fire Brigade have visited,

Bless them,

Oh look, the police have taken off the door.

Yes, it is four, but it could be the time before,

Or the time after,

Such dim daylight,

Shadows become forms,

Lucid stillness,

Transient beauty,

And here you are,

The hoarder,

You have filled up your place,

And now you still fill me up,

With your words

Yet, you find quarrel in a straw.

Your phases of sorrow conjure the wandering stars.

Your interest in the old,

Worn and worn out,

The declined,

Time ravaged,

Eroded and blighted.

Your collection of the used,

Abused and abandoned treasures,

That you collect daily with your shopping trolley,

With an old transistor radio tied to the handle.

The aperture of my pupils dilates in this dark space,

Of your cave.

I begin to see more see more.

There is a strange order here (and a strange odor!)

Structured volumes,

Time pieces,

Memory and contrast in textures,

Endless graduations,

Your postponed decisions,

To keep or not to keep

Your everyday objects,

Of our industrial culture,

Your things, remain on the cusp

of postponed decisions,

Your things have entered a twilight age,

In terms of usefulness,

And attractiveness.

Dust like sprinkled cinnamon over your fridge,

Which now stores obscure legal paperwork,

Dust spread like paprika over your television

Now used as a light source.

To illuminate your stalled projects,

Of appropriation,

Remembering and understanding.

Perhaps, my friends, in the hoarder’s home,

We have reached the bridge,

Of Hoardiculture,

And as I have said before, must give us pause,

Indicates that we are all on the same continuum,

The same bridge.

That I need to reach across,

To cope with the heartache,

And the thousand natural shocks,

That the flesh is heir to.

To be or not to be,

Is the question,

For all of us,

And I need to understand,

What you have discovered,

What you might rediscover and render useful again,

As your own project, to move forward together,

As I listen to and respect

Your personal memories,

What matters to you,

And where you have come from,

And where I might go with you.

Hoardiculture.