The Hoarder

How the experiences of the childhood years affect us into adulthood, and this should serve as a WARNING, for ALL parents out there!!! Translated…

I’d tried to, repeat my life, as much as I possibly can, fall in love, with the similar men I’d fallen for in the past, see the same kinds of movies, eat the same foods, dress up as I normally would, I’d become, extremely, obsessed, and I’d, broken the rules of thumb, of this, disposable world………

Or maybe, it’s because I’d lived at the same place, and rarely moved, I’d become, a total control freak when it came to the realms of recycling the used items, everything that serves a purpose, may not have specific usages, but things with the memories attached to them, I’d kept them, in my collections. Most of the items, since I’d moved in, I’d not found usages for, and, as I’d sorted through the house, I’d often, stumble upon these accidental details of my own life.

This sort of a “symptom”, started showing in me as a young child.

It’d happened, when I was about ten, between the time from entering into the sixth grade from the fifth graded year. With the increase of the burdens of my academia, I’d gone to the teachers with my older sister, to learn the calculations, the teacher led my older sister, turned the dining room table that was right by the windows into a classroom setting, and the dark golden glows from the sun entered through the drapes, and, in those dimly, yellow-fused lighting, discussed the problems I thought to be, too simplistic. (P.S. before I turned into the dumbass I currently am, I’d once passed through, many of the gifted and talented level examinations.)

And so, I’d carried my reading materials, found a place, to crouch down in, inside the darkly-lit living room, and I’d become, somewhat uncomfortable, because I was, in someone else’s home. In order to help me pass the time, my older sister’s instructor took out, a box of milk tea, the outside of the drink box was, brownish, it was, a rectangular prism shaped, with the characters, “FRESH MILK TEA” printed on it, with the tea leaves and the flowers, dots, to hint, how fresh the drink was made. The characters were spread out, evenly, across the drink box, causing me to stay in the state of confusion on if the tea was “made fresh with milk”, or if it was, a “freshly brewed milk tea”.

Anyway, I’d torn open the packaging for the straw, toward that tea made from fresh milk, or was it, the freshly brewed milk tea, took a sip, with my lips. That, was, the very first time I’d had any fresh milk tea, and, it’d tasted, richer than milk, and it wasn’t, as extremely sweet, as the milk tea varieties, I’d never, had a drink so wonderful, I’d, sipped at the package, cherished, savored each and every taste of it, and, tried hard, to suppress my urges to finish the whole box up, but was, unsuccessful at it, and, the icy cold water that rolled down the drink made both of my hands wet.

not my photograph…

In the midst of that soft, smooth sweetness, I’d become, all of a sudden, confused: this amazingly tasting milk tea, at what time, did I, drink it all up, how many sips, did it take?——and, if my beliefs about getting older isn’t on the increase, on what I’d gained (whether it be wings, or swords and knives), instead it was, in a child, a hidden, hole, that once opened, instantly, turned into, the adults’ eyes—at that precise moment, my way of storing these memories, was, mysteriously, initiated, by this carton of milk tea.

Waited until I’d become aware, of how the problem had, gotten to me, I’d already, finished, that delicious, carton of milk tea. And I had, missed out, on the process of me, sipping the fresh milk tea.

In the cool and darkened corner I was in, all of a sudden, I’d felt, the heat, attacking at me, that sort of, never-before experienced, sense of, loss that hit me. At the age of ten, I’d not, quite understood, what it’d all meant, but, I’d become, aware, of how my longing, not willing to let go of the taste of the milk tea was, abnormal, that I should, keep all of these feelings, these thoughts, to myself.

The next time I’d gone to the teacher’s house, she’d once again, taken out, a bottle of fresh milk tea. I’d, held on to the icy cold bottle, listened, to the math calculations, the formulas for a short while, and, worked up my courage, borrowed the pen and paper. With a piece of Kleenex, I’d, written secretively, to the corner: the month, the day, the time, how many sips, Fresh Milk Tea.

And, just like that crack that’s, slowly, opened up. A whole, that started forming, from inside my body, it’d, given me a look into, this sort of, never-before felt, desire.

And that, was how it all began.

First, it was, the milk tea, then, I’d, documented my own meals—the time? What I had. How many bites I’d taken, and, it’d, extended, to the regular daily activities: waking up, brushing my teeth. Going to the bathroom. How many steps I’d taken. How long I’d talked on the phones. In just one night, I’d become, this kid who’s afraid of losing the moments in my life, started, carrying my pen and a writing pad with me at all times, and, when I couldn’t get access to my records, I’d worked hard, to remember it, then, transcribed the events, onto my journal for the day.

At which time, I’d shared the room with my older sister, and she became, the only one who’d noticed my documenting my own life, as I’d, written down the time when I lay my head down at night. I would, before the lights were turned off, open my eyes wide, make sure I caught the time, changed my habits of striking up conversation moments before I fall asleep, and, kept my lips sealed, in the midst, of the darkness, that way, I wouldn’t need to, rerecord my sleep records. Several times, my older sister broke my habit, I’d flipped up out of bed, and heard her laughing.

During that time, I’d fallen, into this enormous realm of anxiety, feared that I may, miss out on a second of the happenings of my life, and, I’d, kept my life, as simple as I possibly could, to not add more burden to myself, keeping track of things. But, the records never outrun the goings-on, something that’s just happened, becomes lost in an instant. At age ten, I’d still had yet to, master in controlling the direction of life, and even if I’m mature enough, I’m destined, to be defeated again, and again—how, can someone live unproductive from day to day? Back then, I’d, come to understand, that there’s a huge difference that happens, from moment to moment, that it won’t, even out, and there’s no way, I can, duplicate what happened yesterday to today’s life.

I’d gone through my plans, step, by step, and, gotten to the broader aspects of life, not only was I keen on keeping my abstract memories, I’d needed to, keep everything I’d come in contact with intact too—the receipts, the payment slips, the coins, the assortment of coupons, I’d, piled them up, according to the dates, inside, of my diary, and, turned money, into useless things. I’d not cared if it was clean or not, my diaries went from being just two-dimensional, to become fattened up, a place, where I’d kept things in: the used tape pieces, my fallen hair, rubber bands, the packaging of boxes of cookies, the tissue paper I blew my nose on, the cue tips, I’d kept them all, and, they’d all, fallen out.

In the secret of my own habitat, the items I’d kept lost their sense of repetition, once they’d gotten through my hands, they were, turned into, specimens, placed, safe and sound, in my diaries. And since, the pages of my diaries became coarse, like the fishes, swam out of the depth of the seas, surfacing, stranded, inside the house. (And, how was I to know, that by making a record of my own life like so, I’m not, meant to be born, on earth?)

And, I’d passed by, months like this. And, the box where my diary was kept became so full that it won’t close anymore, and after I’d finished writing to the last page, it’d taken me, a lot of force, to finally, shut it.

One evening, I’d had an altercation with my older sister, she’d threatened, that she was going to tell my father about my dairy. I couldn’t, back down, I’d said something like “Yeah, go right ahead”, then, my sister, went to, tattle tell on me: that I’d kept, a diary, of unmentionable artifacts.

Being serious and orderly, my father immediately reacted to the news. He’d entered into our room, demanded that I’d hand over my diary to him—the good child diary that he’d wanted to keep, of the moments of our lives.

As he’d, peeled back the covers of my deformed diary, all of my symptoms became known to the world. It was, atrocious for me to see, the segments of tapes, marked, my unwillingness, to let go of time.

During that entire evening, my father half-squatted on the floors, as he’d called me disgusting, dirty, as he’d, torn off the hoarded items. He’d not done it like he’d normally done, instead, he’d torn the pages close to the binding, like he’d wanted to, uproot my thoughts.

My father told me ferociously, that I’d torn the pages off so awfully, for the sake, of teaching you the lesson that you shall remember, look at it close, I will, TEAR it up, page, by page. (How odd, that the origin, of how I was to learn the lessons the hard way, started happening, in various environments, various rituals, someone, wanting me to, remember, something, the HARD way. It’s just, that they’d all known, to give me the warnings, less rashly, unlike how my father, just allowed his disgust toward me, show, so bluntly. That, was the very first time I’d realized, that someone, can HATE someone else with such vehement.)

I’d become, limp, close by, onto the wooden floor, didn’t dare object, didn’t even dare cry, and, I’d not cared about how my private thoughts are now, all exposed, toward my father’s scolding me, I’d fallen, completely, silent. Just watched, my own life, turned to, nothing. Loss.

That was, the only time, that my father, had destroyed something, in this close-to-artistic manner. As the way he’d punished, and warned his nearly abnormal daughter, the way he’d torn off the pages, became like he was, creating, a new diary. And back then, my way-too-mature than my age words, became the additive items, that got buried in the artistic movement.

My father’s belief toward art had, reached its maximum, and it had, stemmed out of, fear, and, in his rash behaviors, I was, turned, all of a sudden, back, into a “normal” child again.

Of course, I’d, understood, my father’s value systems that were, formed, by the civilized world, how he felt, so very, challenged, by my unevenly kept, diary with things that meant the world to me, but I just can’t, forget the way he looked, as he’d, torn the pages off.

After that, my habits of writing had, halted, for a very long time. And, a decade from then, in the present moment, I could still, vaguely recall, that feeling of the broken up texture, that secretly soothing over the brokenness. That, was the very first time I’d come to understand, what broken really meant: not due to your abandonment of the items, but, having the items, taken away from your possessions, using valid reasoning, like it was, on loan to you, that you can’t, holler out in pain, as you see it get taken away from you, get ripped, to shreds.

At the moment when my father was destroying my diary, I’d secretly hoped, that so long as he doesn’t, torn the pages up completely, that in the middle of the nights, I can still, manage, to salvage it again. My father, the man who “made” me, who knew me, before he’d left the bedroom, carried out the torn up pieces, the remains, of my past, said, “I’m getting rid of these trash, so you can, forget about it!”, then, tossed the remains of my childhood, carelessly, into the trash with the recycled materials, then, took it out with him.

I couldn’t be certain, if that small corner of my childhood room, with the broken pages of my own diary, accompanying me, had become, the premonitions for me, to know, that my nights would be completed on nights or not.   But, I’d always, felt the difficulties of adapting to life, late in the nights.

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Because of hoarding the unimportant things, you’d lost, the most meaningful things of your lives, left the orders of life behind. A landfill that’s in the form and shape of a human being, the dioxin of love. This symptom, needed to get treated, medically, at yet, at the age of ten, because of my diary, I’d kept, locked up. The unhealed force recovery turned into, an even more secretive, harder, and can’t-be-treated condition, and slowly, it’d, made its way, into my adulthood years, and had, even, become the landmark of my life. Found, at the end, of everything that I did.

I’d worked hard, to repeat my life, to like, the same kind of people I liked, the same movies, the same foods, the same attires, I’d become, obsessed, and, then, I’d, tossed, this disposable world away now.

Thinking back, the me who’d wrote that diary, had known, the truths about life a long time ago.

At the moment that it’d happened, we’d gone into the state of eternal loss, not acting immediately, and, regrets that came later on, are all, mistakes. I’d understood late, that the pages shouldn’t have been, destroyed, the loser in life, is those things we’d gone through from day to day.

I’d never, owned, another one of those, blurred afternoons again, because of a sweetened drink, I’d metamorphosed, the ability, for secret keeping. As an adult, I’d stopped, letting my true self show, so no one, will ever be able to, destroy what I am.

Sometimes, I’d started doubting, that my fetish toward owning things, could it, have been, the metamorphosed form of that diary from long ago. Like how the fears of being separated from the childhood safety things, and, ended the life earlier, the diary that’s now, dead, and buried—I’d become this woman, ill-adapted to separations from things, and, for so many times, I’d, hoped, that I’d wanted to, separate, for once hard, to stop all of my separations in the future.

And, the days I’d kept my diary, may have been the days, I was closest, to god. At this time, I’d come, to understand, that only by recording down my life, making it true: at what time? What, was done? Where I’d gone? Purely, materialistic, in this world of disposable things, only events of memories like that, were, real.

the illustration from the papers…

And so, you can see, from this article, how the childhood CAN effect a person as s/he becomes an adult, and, the father here, IS the problem, just because his daughter has this need, to keep track of life using HER ways, and no matter how wrong he’d believed her ways to be, she’s NOT hurting anybody, she’s just, keeping track of all the things that mattered to her, he still shouldn’t have, hurt his own child, by destroying the RECORDS she made of her own life, that’s like, ERASING his own child’s past, and, negating her existence, and this had, affected this woman, even as an adult too!!!