Sharyn Ghidella confesses she is a hoarder

I have a confession to make - I have a problem and it means that 364 days of the year, my house is off limit to visitors, writes Sharyn Ghidella.

Sharyn Ghidella confesses she is your low-grade, garden-variety type of hoarder.

I have a confession to make. I’m a bit of a hoarder.

Not the kind that might be diagnosed with a clinical condition or need cognitive behaviour therapy to cope.

Or, even feature on that American TV show Hoarders, although I’m sure the producers would be brimming with encouragement: “Give it a few more years, dear, and we’ll be back.”

No, I’m more your low-grade, garden-variety type of hoarder, meaning 364 days of the year – at least –my house is off limits to visitors, simply because you can’t see the floor in nearly every room of the house.

(OK, low-grade may be a bit of an understatement!)

Yes, I have a problem (just one, I hear you say), I struggle to throw things out because somewhere in the prefrontal cortex or some cortex of my brain, I can attach sentimentality to every single object that makes its way through the front door.

Which means every spring, when we are psychologically programmed to clean, I seem to be psychologically programmed to treasure a trove of random items that, technically, should be consigned to a pile of junk.

Sharyn Ghidella says her home is off limits to visitors 364 days of the year due to her hoarding habit.

Concert tickets, old work security passes, a 70s Disco Fever T-shirt that’s not so febrile any more. Those Bay City Roller and ABBA posters that stripped paint off the walls. Sheet music for a piano
I don’t even own. Maybe I could play it on my primary school recorder. The neighbours would be thrilled. That instrument of shrill has sat silent for way too long in a bedside drawer.

And don’t get me started on all my old clothes.

If I’ve worn them somewhere special, I’ll keep them. Besides, what if I need them for that next fancy dress party I have to attend.

Trouble is, at my age, I’m actually not that fancy any more … and I don’t seem to party much either.

Still, best not throw out that once-favourite pair of skin-tight vinyl pants that saw you through your youth, particularly not now that you require a vice and a wrench to squeeze yourself back into them.

You could go dressed as Sandy from Grease. Genius!

Problem is, by the time the invite arrives, some voracious silverfish or moth appears to have loved those pants even more than you did; the stitching holding them together is eaten through. Who needs a vice and a wrench now? You couldn’t even belt out the first chorus of Hopelessly Devoted To You, before the wretched things fell off.

And then there are the objets d’art lovingly gifted to me by my sons. That cupcake of socks; the Paddle Pop stick photo frame; the macaroni necklace – which incidentally the moths didn’t eat. The English essays … the highest mark was B+, for goodness sake. It’s hardly Shakespeare, but cherish and hang on to them I do.

A receptacle, commonly referred to as a bin, just doesn’t seem the right place for these prized possessions to end up.

By discarding the object, it feels like I’m also discarding the memory attached to it.

Of course I’ve sought help; watching videos curated by those obsessive-compulsive neat freaks I so aspire to be.

Organising consultant Marie Kondo. Picture: KonMari Media Inc

I’ve sipped from the Marie Kondo cup. I’ve origami-ed my underwear; been preached the one in/one out rule. I’ve turned coathangers around on clothes, but still don’t donate them to charity after failing to wear them for an entire year.

Turning the coathanger back to its original position requires a lot less effort and much less trauma.

Yes, I’m quite the failure when it comes to passing the “joy test”. I can find joy in any object, even if I’ve done an ankle or two tripping over the useless damn thing as it clutters the floor.

And please don’t suggest I take a photo to preserve the memory, then throw the object away. I’m already personally keeping the Apple organisation afloat with the excess storage I pay for my phone.

As I said, low-grade may be an understatement.

Perhaps I should just admit defeat. Take pride in being one of Howards Storage World’s best customers.

They have a rewards program, after all.

Because, to be perfectly frank, there’s probably no hope my brain and any cortex in it can be trained to think any other way.

When it comes to sentimentality and hanging on to memories, my cerebral matter is a powerful enemy even Marie Kondo couldn’t control.

Now about that starring role in Hoarders. Does anyone have a number for the producers?

Originally published as Sharyn Ghidella confesses she is a hoarder