If you, like me, get panic attacks at the thought of spring cleaning, see no reason to get rid of your stereo turntable just because the stylus fell off and you haven’t used it since 1981, you may have a fear of throwing things out. There is a name for this. Keeping the London Fog raincoat you bought in college, the papier-mâché head of Ronald Reagan you made for an Iran contra demonstration, and all your old mass market paperbacks is called disposophobia.
Most compulsive behaviors have names. Although it is a debilitating experience to have a fear that controls your life, it can be great fun to name one. The word phobia is Greek for fear. To name your condition, simply find the Greek word that describes what you would do anything in the world to avoid. For instance, Agora-phobia is the fear of open spaces. Alektoro-phobia is the fear of chickens. Allium-phobia is the fear of garlic. Using this simple formula, we know that Agora-lektor-allium-phobia is the fear of eating James Beard’s famous recipe, Chicken with 40 Cloves of Garlic, in the back yard.
Disposophobia affects everyone who has contact with the disposophobic. Some will lose their closet space forever. Others may grow up assuming it is illegal to throw out broken blenders, or that all floors are covered by shag carpets. Unfortunately, the only person who can stop disposophobic behavior is the disposophobic. It can be anyone, from any background and all walks of life. Over 95 percent of disposophobics function fairly well, but harbor an irrational belief that one day their old Jethro Tull albums will become collector’s items, or that the IRS will requisition their Mass Turnpike receipts back to 1979.
Although entire families have been driven to ruin, most disposophobics are men and it is largely the wives, those closest to the disposophobic, who bear the suffering and become hopelessly entangled in their husband’s disorder. Caught as they are in denial, they will try to ignore their husband’s numerous waste paper baskets, which in the twisted universe of the disposophobic are never emptied and serve covertly as filing systems. They take on the blame, guilt, and shame that really belongs to the disposophobic, forcing back tears when the husband goes to the mall wearing his amber-colored aviator sun glasses. In the most severe cases the enabler succumbs to the logic of her husband. She, too, can become ill, can find herself hoarding a drawer full of envelopes of odd size and color that have long ago become detached from the greeting cards they came with.
However many of us there are who have never been able to clear enough room in our garages for a car, who have lost a beloved pet that was crushed by a one-hundred-fifty pound stereo speaker that finally fell from the wall, who cannot bring themselves to discard their piles of old Natural History magazines because they always meant to finish an article by Stephen Jay Gould but have forgotten which issue it is in, there is a place we will not be alone or be made to feel hopelessly different, an informal society dedicated to helping each other solve our common problem; a fellowship of men and women that is self-supporting and not allied with any sect, denomination, political affiliation, organization, or institution; a place in which dispo-sophobia is understood and not considered a weakness.
For many years I rejected the notion that I could lead a normal life. Going it alone I tried everything: yard sales, flea markets, classifieds, swap shops, Salvation Army drops, supermarket bulletin boards, the Want Advertiser. I went into debt, borrowing above my means to build an outdoor storage shed. I was at the lowest ebb of my life, however, about to rent a 300 square foot climate-controlled self-storage unit on the highway when I admitted I was powerless to cope with my situation and succumbed to a Higher Power.
A Higher Power that provided serenity for myself and my family. A Higher Power that opened an entire community to me and was available day or night, wherever and whenever I was in need. Ultimately I had to admit that I was helpless in the face of my disease, and that only by joining with others like myself could I find the strength to admit that disposophobia is not a moral weakness but a small business and accept that I will never sell my stuff for its original retail value, only a jacked-up shipping price. Some refer to their Higher Power as God. Some, a Spiritual Awakening; Jesus, Allah, the Universe. I call it e-bay.
Ira Wood will be leading a workshop with Marge Piercy October 16-18. Click for details.
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