Hoarders Hotline
We all know a hoarder. It might be your parents, your grandparents, a friend, a flatmate — who knows it might even be you.
I’ve noticed that we have a tendency to chuck this word about- the way we have with so many- now completely unusable and detestable words-simply because we don’t really understand it. Just like so many conditions, we don’t see it as something that affects us and it’s easier to make a joke about it than actually learn. We just see Hoarders as just the people that we watch on daytime TV who haven’t seen their cat for three weeks because it got swallowed by a living and breathing pile of junk.
Before I go on, I should probably clarify why the heck I’m talking about hoarding of all things. I can hear you thinking :I thought that this was supposed to be about running Rebecca but you haven’t talked about it in weeks, do you think we wouldn’t notice? Yeah , yeah- I know I’ve definitely been ignoring the subject. I’ve had a slow couple of training weeks- there always seems to be something else to do but I’m slowly getting back into it. The weather in Dundee has been so amazing and I have been living on the City Quay which is genuinely this constant flashy in-you-face Vegas neon sign reminder that I need to train….but, you know, later. Running will always be there anyway….unfortunately.
So, if I haven’t been running which you all seem to think I seem to live and breathe (I wish), what have I been doing with myself? For the unlucky souls that have me on social media will know, I have been running a clothes drive with the Dundee Uni Feminist Society. However, if you have, for some inexplicable reason, taken to living under a rock or (perhaps a little more likely) you are a student and the library has become your permanent home then you might not know that this has been going on over the last few weeks. Again, this is doubtful because I do really harp on about it…a lot.
Now, this is not just a shameless plug to get you to donate your unloved clothes, not that I would object to your donations. I swear it’s not the only reason that I’m writing this post but it has certainly been a good source of inspiration. It all started a couple of months ago when my flatmate Billi and I realised that we own too much stuff. I wish I was exaggerating when I say that the sheer weight of my clothes broke my dresser and every time Billi opens hers, she puts her life into her hands. I am half expecting to see a squashed shape Billi imprinted on the floor sometime in the near future…if it hasn’t happened already. That being said, I should probably go check on her.
It’s alright, she’s alive so where was I? Yes, the clothes drive. It’s a truth, universally acknowledged that I watch too much Netflix. Marie Kondo and Queer Eye included. In a mist of procrastination, we decided to Marie Kondo our lives: throw out any of the clothes that we don’t wear and that do “not bring us joy” as the saying goes. Through our cleaning, we realised that there really is so many benefits to a spring clean now and again:
- Your room becomes clean and habitable ( even if you thought that pigs would fly first)
- You get this complete false ( and frankly dangerous ) sense of control over your life when really you are just avoiding the real things you should be dealing with which is always fun. I can see this all ending in you drinking your weight in [insert preferred drink here] so sorry about that. Since I am secretly a 65 year old scottish granny, my poison is and always will be Gin.
- You will find stuff that you forgot you had but turns out you really love and now that you have remembered, you have to wear them for 2 weeks straight just to make up for forgetting about them all this time
- You will have room for MORE STUFF and if you don’t see that as an excuse to go shopping then your responsible spending ( and boring budgeting) ass can turn round and leave as far as I’m concerned. I don’t have time for that negativity in my life.
So in all these benefits, I think we have got to get back to why I really did it. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good list but as we all know I tend to do things for 1001 different reasons and even if procrastination is a powerful draw, something more meaningful has to be going on . If you have ever watched Bobby makeover people’s houses in Queer Eye, you will know exactly what I am on about here.
I am not your “typical” depressed person, I hate to label myself like that as so many people have done but there it is. Before I was diagnosed, I had a series of Doctors comment on how I was smiley and I was laughing so how bad could I be? Now, I’m not a confrontational person by default ( or a militant feminazi- don’t worry there is a post coming about that) but I find ignorance like this incredibly frustrating. I’m not a 14 year old emo with my unironic nose ring and dyed black hair just lightly grazing one eye with Nirvana on repeat. Depression isn’t obvious. The majority of the time, it looks exactly like me and so many of your “quirky” friends who laugh off that they are really hurting or dismiss their emotions with a relatable meme. My real emotions very rarely leave my room. When I am particularly low, you won’t see me crying in public or throwing a tantrum. You will more than likely not see me at all. I have a very nasty habit of hiding away like a little (red) squirrel going into hibernation. I won’t cook or exercise. My replies will get spotty and my hygiene can become extremely questionable during this time. I am not a pretty sight to see I assure you. Just imagine if Depression could manifest itself and take on a physical form, my room would be it. The double edged sword of my mental health ( and of so many others) is that I cannot have depression without anxiety. When I feel low and I scran out on food ( as I have mentioned in Cake Belly and yes the verb is to scran) I start to hide from the world. You tell yourself it’s just a day but then a day becomes a couple and a couple becomes a week until you realise you don’t remember when you cooked your last meal. Let’s call it the Depression Pit (pun intended because my room really does look like that) .The clue is in the name; the Depression Pit is like the anti-Disneyland and not in a cool Banksy kind of way. It is severely lacking in rainbows and unicorns if you ask me.
The Depression Pit can feel bottomless and often proves to be extremely hard to claw yourself out of especially when life hits you with a cheeky bit of anxiety. In my experience, it’s not like that episode in Friends where the hoarder Ross is dating is somehow completely oblivious to the disgusting slob she is and the radioactive hell she is living in. Not that my mess ever gets that bad, probably because I don’t have a hamster but it can become overwhelming. You tell yourself you will do it today but then you look it ( go away to throw up) and your wee anxiety demons start turning their cogs in your head and then you start to panic about where to begin. It’s really lovely. I have spoken to a few friends about it who have visited the Pit themselves but they all say the same very unhelpful but fundamentally wise thing ( darn it Imogen). Sadly, the longer you leave it the worse it gets. You might be hoping that some magical fairies or the Borrowers will save you but nope. Your mess, your responsibility. The only way to get out of the pit is by doing it yourself. I’m not telling you this so you all break into tears but I would be impressed if I had that kind of my power, I’m not going to lie. I know it’s not always the easiest thing to do. I usually go through slumps like these every couple of months and I am yet to break the cycle but I have started to see the signs. It’s always when I’m uber stressed about something ( it’s like a giant inconvenient metaphor for the state of my life) and it all starts with the evil allure of cinnamon buns. If you have any tips send them my way because I would really like to live in a world between two extremes.
It turns out that you can take the girl out of higher English but you never take the higher English out of the girl. The looming memory of Carol Ann Duffy’s Valentine repeating endlessly in my mind until the end of time like that one Christmas CD in ASDA is proof of that. It’s left this lasting desire for a good metaphor and the remnants of Hurricane Katrina in my room proves the perfect one. I said your mess, your responsibility. It’s true, we cannot expect anyone to help us. It’s not their job. We are the only ones who can make ourselves happy and it’s not your job to make someone else happy. It’s a mantra that I have to drill into myself every single day, maybe there’s an idea for a tattoo in that somewhere! So yes, you do you girl (immediately regret writing that) but what I have learned from the clothes drive this week is that a little help goes a long way. Give someone an excuse to do the cleaning, give people a reason, a cause to believe in and we can make a bigger difference than you could ever predict.
This week, we have been so overwhelmed by donations- just see for yourselves- I have had to find alternative accommodation. Just kidding but that is my bed. We are going to help 6 amazing local charities who relentlessly work to better the lives of the most vulnerable people in out community. I like to think we are doing them proud but in a selfish way, I like to think that we are helping ourselves as well. By cleaning out our wardrobes, we are cleaning out our often muddled up minds too and making way for a bit of that Marie Kondo joy.
To learn more about Hoarder’s Disorder for yourself or others: https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/hoarding-disorder/
