Hoarder

I live with a hoarder. I’m serious. E is Mr Stuff and I am Anti Stuff. Like a superhero. That’s me.

Most of the time, I am quite happy to let the stuff accrue. That, after all, is why we got a two-bedroom place. It was a stipulation of mine. I knew I was with a hoarder when I saw the Canadian Living special seasonal book called “Keeping A Canadian Christmas”, complete with tartan and teddy bears, in his desk, the first month we were dating. Either I was with a secret Betty Crocker (I really wasn’t), or I was with a hoarder.

So his stuff. Most of it fits in his room, but things creep out. And it’s my job to deal with them.

I know lots of people who live with hoarders do the thing where they secretly throw things out. I have never felt comfortable with that. It’s his stuff, not mine. But I do have to do something. Because the boxes of gig clothes from fifteen years ago? I’m tired of working around them. The cardboard box full of Styrofoam esses? Well, I did deal with them. However, the two sleeping bags he has not used in eight years? The ugly beer glasses in a box? Why are we keeping them? Ditto the cowboy boots and the army trunk full of musty coats. I don’t know why he needs them. I just don’t. But every time I suggest that we might decide not to keep things like these, he refuses adamantly. Maybe even vehemently.

I’m going to have to do something and I don’t know what it’s going to be.

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