I empathize with compulsive hoarders.
I’ve always had collecting tendencies. DVDs, shoes, bottle caps, vintage mushroom kitchen decor, horoscope themed coffee mugs. You name it, I probably have a couple of them.
Thrift and antique stores are utopias to me -- winding, close-quartered, jam-packed aisles of kitschy home goods, sending flashbacks of my Nana’s kitchen, smelly stacks of crumbling vinyl records, leaving chalky residue and the feeling of Blues on my fingertips, fistful of silky satin floral print scarves, twisting around my wrists like past lives making themselves known.
What enamored me most about visiting relatives while growing up was rifling through their own collections, discerning their odd affinities and heart’s designs through their photographs, films, records, clothing, and jewelry. Why were certain photographs framed and displayed, while others were trapped in desk drawers or filed away in the attic? How did they decide which jewelry graced their bodies on a regular basis, while others were stored away with stray safety pins and bandaids? Why did certain books have birthdays on their shelves, but remained unread, unborrowed, untouched?
The things around me have physically fallen apart lately and I can’t help but be inclined to believe for good reason. In the week leading up to my departure, I lost one ring while three others broke (I usually sport eight rings - I’m now down to four). Turns out I had packed three dried up tubes of lipstick, and my trusty dog-napping bag (named endearingly for its size and my almost suspicious adoration for doggies) is falling apart so rapidly, it’s leaving a trail of faux leather behind each time I set it down.
I’m saying all of this because I find myself face to face with an unquestionable self-doubt I’ve never experienced. How will people truly know who I am when I’m stripped of all my stuff? What will people think of me wearing only four rings? How will they know I burn sage and travel the desert frequently? How can I let people see me without any makeup? How will they know I live like Halloween is every week? Who am I without the context of my adorable little apartment, filled to the brim with stories and songs made up by furniture and decor? When the clothes, the jewels, the knick knacks, the glitter are all removed - am I lovable? Am I exciting? Am I artful and spontaneous?
Will people like me without the support of my things?
Don't get me wrong - I'm fully supportive of an extensive vinyl collection or Brendan Fraser's entire filmography on VHS. This isn't an Alexander Supertramp styled womanifesto to abandon all materials and run. I'm just the most vulnerable I've been my entire life, save for maybe the day I started living it, and a portion of that can be chalked up to being forced to show my true self. There's nowhere to hide on the road.
As usual, I don't really know where I'm going with this other than I’m re-evaluating my relationship with stuff and hoping the next months will bring me a newfound sense of wholeness with myself, and only myself. No rings, no lipstick, no things. Just little ol' me.
Bethany Swoveland is a poet and digital artist in Texas. She’s available for freelance work and can be reached at bethanyswoveland@gmail.com. Sign up for Bethany’s monthly email newsletter here.