There must be a word for it. The unique condition of not actually being a hoarder, but being obsessed with people who are.
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Many's a night I've lost sleep staying up to watch Hoarding: Buried Alive, a TV show in which psychologists help obsessive-compulsive hoarders transform their homes from garbage tips to havens of clean surfaces, freshly exposed carpets and gleaming bathrooms.
Instead of decluttering – actually reducing the volume of stuff I own – I became obsessed with finding appropriate "storage solutions". Instead of reducing my stuff, I added more. Constant deprivation of built-in robes will do that to a person.
But it's all changed. Over summer, I stumbled upon the work of decluttering guru and Japanese tidying expert Marie Kondo. I devoured her 2014 bestseller The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, the central thesis of which is to put everything you own on the floor and only keep the items that give you joy. There is a particular order: start with clothes, then books, papers, miscellaneous stuff and then finish with sentimental items like mementos and photos.
The thrill of chucking stuff out was immediate and visceral. Out. Out. Out. Damned clutter. But progress has slowed since I've come to the more sentimental items: letters, cards, diaries and photos. Despite several attempts, I can't bring myself to throw them out. Worse, the process of looking at them has submerged me in a wave of nostalgia that has made me question earlier decisions.
According to the Kondo theory, the process of discarding things, done properly and methodically (which is far from the way I've done it) should leave one feeling relieved and rejuvenated. Her book is full of stories of clients who have lost weight, found new jobs and excelled in their life since their purge.
And I'm definitely enjoying some benefits. It's far easier to get ready in the morning without rifling through an overstuffed wardrobe of clothes I don't really like. I have almost empty shelves in the bathroom where it's easier to access my most used items.
I no longer stalk the house wondering what I can chuck out. If anything, I wander the house alert to the ghosts of objects farewelled.
But, as usual, I take comfort from economic theory. One of the main pieces of advice economists offer is to ignore "sunk costs". Money we have spent in the past should not influence future decision making. Just because you paid $15 for that burger and chips doesn't mean you must finish every one. Just because you spent $350 on that dress doesn't mean you should keep it if you will never wear it again and it bothers you that you have no room to store it.
Economists also advise to make decisions "at the margin". In other words, in the here and now. Ignore everything that has transpired: you should only do something if the marginal benefits will exceed the marginal costs. Never act out of regret, fear or guilt. Think always and only of your future happiness. What will make you happy now and tomorrow?
The process of discarding has taught me that the things that bring me true joy are not things, but people. They're not memories of the past, but ideas about what the future could bring. Could it be that nagging feeling of emptiness is not a void but a vessel, waiting to be filled with new adventures? It is by learning to ignore sunk costs that we attune ourselves to future happiness. And that is worth a little discomfort.