Labor Day packing uncovers hoarding

Organized hoarding — it’s real.
Or at least I’m saying it’s real because it’s the only way to self-diagnose a new disorder I’ve developed over the years without even realizing it.
The worst of it comes in the form of books, school mementos and photos.
Regardless of the sentimental nature, they continue to stay with me from apartment to apartment, or more so at my parents’ home since they don’t move quite as often.
Now that safe haven of storage at my parents’ is being cleaned out in anticipation of their planned move to a lake in the northeast part of the state as part of their impending retirement.
So my Labor Day weekend was filled with just that — labor.
Moving everything from storage in the house to the upper level of their barn, I found it all too much.
At first I thought it would be fun, waxing nostalgic as I go through all these old mementos of my past. And it was entertaining right up until I realized the majority of items inside the relatively large closet were my own.
The storage space was filled with college dorm posters, high school awards, binders of old school work and boxes filled with photos. This was in addition to the stacks of books I’ve been reserving for my dream library that has yet to come to fruition and hobbies that died from a lack of discipline.
Why had I felt the need to keep all of my work for classes after I graduated? Am I afraid they’re going to renege my grade? Or that one day I could possibly use an essay on “Oedipus” in a chance encounter?
As I looked through it all, these sorts of rationalities — or more like irrationalities — all passed through my mind.
Not having time to sift through it all in the few days I was home, I kept the majority of what I had saved, merely moving it from one room to another.
(This included a Spongebob Squarepants-shaped pillow that I don’t have the heart to get rid of. It’s super comfy and kitschy — so obviously I’m attached to it.)
But ultimately what struck me as odd is that I consider myself a very organized — to the point of compulsion — person, and yet I found myself hoarding things I feel an unreasonable sense of attachment to.
The “disorder” was just tucked under the facade of organization, laying in boxes and bags, masking items as necessary when really they are the results of a bad habit.
Books are the worst offenders.
I can’t go to a Goodwill, Salvation Army, garage sale or flea market without perusing their selection of literature.
Whether it’s the lure of the beautiful binding and cover or the actual content, I always walk away with something.
And it’s grown over the years to the point that I’m collecting at a much faster rate than I can read.
Some may think it’s not the worst habit to have, but deep down all I could think this past weekend was, “These poor books should be loved by someone who has time to read them.”
(See, the books become animated as real people in my mind. Mistake #1: My imagination betrays my practicality.)
In a maniacal villain voice in my head — or maybe similar to Gollum and his “precious” — I convince myself that, “No, they’re mine. I need them.”
While I know there are many who are much worse off and dealing with an actual mental illness attached to hoarding, I can’t help but wonder how wide the gap is between what I do and one day crawling through a maze of 20-year-old newspapers stacked ceiling high just to feed my herd of cats.