The first time I ever saw a hoarder was on the Oprah Winfrey show while I was curled up on my living room couch. I was appalled by the way a person could live in a sea of their belongings. The mess in my closet and under my bed is about as much hoarding as I’ve ever done. In the show, the woman and man had enough things hoarded to keep their whole village clothed and sustained. Everything was taken out and the clothes were put into a massive warehouse where they made at least $10,000 off the clothes. On top of that, their house had to be cleared from insect infestations, rats and asbestos. I could never see myself knowing, being, or talking to someone who could remotely ever be like that.
Around six years ago, I moved to this quaint village on the verge of New Brunswick. It is very hidden and half of the New Brunswick population does not know it even exists. On the street I lived in, our neighbors were friendly and warm. It was like living in a greeting card. Every house was tended to, white picket fenced and bright red doors. The mailman would greet the people on the streets. But, like every village, there is that black spot, that imperfection that people tend not to talk about. Our black spot was a house with an overly grown yard and clutter that spilled out of the front door and the
back yard. All of the siding on the house was sagging and going gray like a sour Christmas. Rumors said that horrible smells would come some days from the house. I never smelt it because I learned to avoid that area like the plague. Complaints were risen about the imperfection of the house, the way it brought down the prices of surrounding homes. Everyone was afraid that there might be rats and insects that would eventually come into their homes. No one wanted to be associated with it.
Even so, people just thought the owner would realize, realize that his house was not fit for him to live in. They thought he would realize that he was living in his demise. It was horrible to watch as he started getting warnings about his home. Then one day the house had orange ‘X’s on the door and on the windows. Things got really serious after that. Police came and so did the bulldozers. His house was stripped down, until all that was inside, his memories; his life was in a heap of rubble. He never realized how much control he lost. He used to be a prominent part of society, living his life. Now his life is an empty lot with a tree and a shed. He still has his mailbox on a stump and his car comes by sometimes. And sometimes he comes and talks to the other neighbors. In the end he is just a story, a tale of the only real live hoarder.
Fiha Abdulrahman