Last week we had a “little” argument. I say “little” because it was not about a life-changing event, a colossal failure on my part, or even about money or its related concerns. Instead, it was about a small frame, approximately 4'“ by 6”, in polished brass, with a posed chetah laying for the top. It was bought a number of years ago at a store that specializes in home furnishings, food, toilette paper, and beauty products. It was massed produced, probably bought on sale, and not sentimental in any way.
The frame had recently lost the grommets that attached the stand to the frame and my wife (correctly) felt that its usefulness (or decorative purpose) had come to an end. While we were standing in the area of the kitchen garbage can she proceeded to ask if it met the criteria for recycling, dropping it into the segregated can. Without thinking I reached in, taking it out, and mentioned that I think I could find a use for it.
“Really,” she asked with a tone of desperation, “that is what it has come to? Picking things out of the garbage? Can’t you throw anything away?”
What followed was a part stammering description of the possible intended uses for the frame, now without its glass, as well as equal part apology for taking something out of the trash (I kept thinking I should have just waited until she was not in the vicinity of the bin and picked it out at a later time). My explanation(s) and apologies were not well-received, however, because this wasn’t the first time that I had tried to salvage something from our trash.
“What is wrong with you? Are we really that broke that you want to reuse a broken frame? No really,” she asked, her frustration increasing with my apologetic attempts failing. “You need to talk to someone about this. If I ever leave, you would be surrounded by piles of trash, living in filth.” (The actual exchange was much longer, but the fine points of the argument really aren’t worth recapping. Maybe in a later post I can discuss exactly how difficult I find arguing with my spouse to be, but better saved for another time).
She was right though. I really cannot just throw anything away. It isn’t because I have fears of the increasing landfills in our area, or because I desire to “rework” or to “save” the discarded objects, I am just inherently against throwing something away that could somehow, in some way, at some point be useful or re-worked into another purpose. While I know I am placing a positive spin on my reasoning, I have to admit that my obsession with saving things can be annoying even for me. I “save” plants that have one living leaf, for some reason refusing to give up on their near-corpse appearances until all possible life has left. I also have a tendency to save the little plastic bags with the screws and drywall thingies for putting the screws where the studs aren’t, collecting twenty, forty, or more into a drawer and then forgetting them when I need a random screw. Really, what am I thinking? It would be the smart choice to take those packets and split them into the organization unit in my garage, but instead they are tossed with the extra chopsticks into the “junk drawer”. But this isn’t supposed to be a referendum of my obsessive habits. Bear with me.
I started thinking about my obsession with not throwing things away, and it seems to have gotten worse over the past two years. I can’t put my finger on it, but I think the increasing obsession started when I lost one of my favorite dogs to heart disease. (Reader’s note, I (clearly) do not have children, hence the 21st century obsession with our animals as important family members). She was small, a really cute chihuahua, and I had been taking her to a cardiologist for a little over a year. She had an irregular heart rhythm, likely from birth, and while she honestly tried to be as active and participate in daily life as any of our other dogs, she was limited. She required medicine (which she hated) and towards the end I would hand-feed her. Her death was at the same time expected, but also a surprise. She just seemed not herself, asked to be put on the floor on Christmas Eve, and wasn’t moving when I checked on her in the early hours. To say that I have missed her would be an understatement, particularly as our lives revolved around her medicine, hand-feeding her, or roasting beef bones so she would eat something. For such a small animal, her absence was significantly felt. Her death was more than the absence of a companion or the daily routines, after she passed I felt an anxiety that has remained since her death.
My (self-diagnosed) anxiety is not overwhelming or even a constant state. Just sometimes, and quite possibly during the most random of moments, my heart rate increases and I start to worry. My worry turns to an obsession and then I cannot tolerate a plant being uprooted or even a tacky frame being thrown into the trash. Subconsciously I am trying to “save” the object/plant/extension cord cut in two by my 15 year old neighbor yard keeper —I admit that knowledge of the subconscious is a silly statement, but my reflection after time is that I don’t consciously connect the two events. I tried to save my pet, but was terribly unsuccessful, maybe this can be different.
My anxiety with saving things has turned into obsessions beyond trash-removal. IN the past year I have started a “program” to try to save baby birds that have fallen out of their nest in my yard, including erecting a warming light and using an eye dropper with a mixture of chicken food and hard boiled eggs. My attempts have not proven successful, however, as in my three tries to “save” a baby bird, I have only resulted in “saving” the baby birds for 48 to 62 hours. The sadness of the deaths of the found baby birds hasn’t caused a cessation of my attempts, although my optimism has diminished each failed attempt.
It should be evident that my attempts to psycho-analyze my actions are (at best) naive and without any professional insight, or (at their worst) an oversimplification to justify my unhealthy obsessions. I mean the obvious answer could just be that I have an obsessive compulsive condition that manifests in the hoarding of things and I won’t be happy until I am surrounded by stacks of washed styrofoam meat plates —you know, the styrofoam that uncooked meat is sold at the grocery store. I also freely admit that I am overly sentimental and I attach far too much importance on physical items. I saved boxes of books and collectibles from my childhood, stored away in the basement of houses or in the back of our barn —don’t ask, because my point is not with the storage shed I call a barn, but the storage of boxes that remain unopened, waiting to be released from their earthly confinement by a rodent’s gnawing little teeth.
I wish I knew how to address my issues, short of actually seeking licensed “help.” And I am not here to give you solutions. Again, there are multiple industries devoted to talking over your problems or prescribing medication to aid with anxiety. I am not a therapist and am not a huge fan of prescription medication, However, I did think that this would be a nice way to add to my story and to share my compulsions with the few people who may stumble across this post. Maybe putting the thoughts in my head onto the computer screen will help with my compulsions. It is possible right?
Oh, and if you are curious how the argument over the leopard frame —I was actually completely wrong about the feline posing in brass, well, after about 30 minutes of apology my better half decided that my obsession was not worth her time. And the frame? Well, I did keep it from the trash bin and decided that it might be a funny gift to my neighborhood kids who like to spend their days playing in their front yard. I left it next to the fairy garden that they have erected, while on a dog walk with the two current members of our family, figuring that the bright color and exotic cat would be of interest to the kids ranging in age from six to twelve. For all I know the kids threw it away right after the found it in the morning, but it is also possible… no, highly likely that they saw a way to turn it into an art project and their crayon drawings found their way into the golden, only sort of broken, frame.