Hoarders Anonymous


BY KARDELEN KALA (TRIN/I)
kala@ug.bilkent.edu.tr

Hi everyone. My name is Kardelen Kala and apparently I have a hoarding problem. I wasn't even aware of it until a couple of weeks ago, when I had to pack the contents of my room and bookshelves back home because my dad is moving. My room had not been properly lived in for three years, so I knew I had a monumental task ahead of me. Armed with cardboard boxes of various sizes and large trash bags, I attacked the place early one morning.

At first, things were going well enough. I thoroughly enjoyed finding old journals and some homework that I wouldn't mind keeping. And first drafts of many articles. A promising-looking short story attempt by my younger self, which, while in need of some editing, turned out to be not so horrible as I would have thought. I flipped through all the comic books that I own -- Tintin, Asterix and Lucky Luke were my childhood companions -- and delighted in finding books long forgotten and CDs I don't even remember buying. Books and magazines in a variety of languages, some of which I don't speak. I even started to think that maybe packing my room wasn't such an exhausting, soul-draining experience after all.

Just as I was about to finish with the room and move on to the bookcase, however, things turned ugly. I found textbooks that weren't used even when I was taking the class. Newspaper clippings so old that they were bright yellow, on subjects I don't even remember caring about. Tickets to movies I don't recall seeing. I can't explain why I kept my spelling and handwriting notebooks from first grade or exam papers from fourth grade. Nor do I have any idea of what I was planning to do with countless high school art projects, which, because I'm so very gifted in the area, are all truly horrible, I'm afraid. All in all, I guess I provided plenty of paper bounty for some shredder in some faraway processing plant.

My wardrobe didn't help matters either. What was I doing, I ask you, with a bathrobe so old it was falling apart? I unearthed, from the depths of an ocean of clothes, pants that were large enough for two people my size and others that wouldn't go past my thighs. Socks with holes in them, but also brand new ones I had no idea I owned. A skirt I thought I had lost eons ago came out unharmed from the sea of junk it was drowning in. And towels… Why on earth would I need so many towels? Or shawls for that matter? What was wrong with me?

I have always known that I tend not to throw things away, but the extent of my habit horrified me as I delved deeper into my stuff. The scariest part came when I had to sort through them. I tried to get rid of as much as I could, especially since the new apartment is significantly smaller than our current one. However, I must admit that I didn't entirely succeed in doing so. I just couldn't part with some of those items. They seemed so loaded with memories, so integral to my past, and therefore my present, through a chain of forgotten memories and experiences. I realized that I feel strongly about my material possessions; perhaps even more strongly than I would like to admit. I know in theory that everything that makes me who I am lives on inside my head, and I don't need crumbling bits of paper or a hideous pair of leather pants to remind me. All this I know very well. But deep inside my heart, I can't help feeling strongly attached to worthless junk, Fight Club be damned.