Hoarders

I have always been fascinated by hoarders. Their incapability to release old half-treasures into the world boggled my already cluttered mind. How could one relinquish the ability to move freely about their habitat all for the reassurance that every item that they ever lusted over is still in their possession? How could a human being sacrifice freedom for bondage? I asked all these questions and more; eyes glazed over, staring at the tv screen in sheer and utter amazement. Ridiculousness I tell you.

Then it cuts to commercial. A brief pause in broadcasting turns my boobtube into a mirror. A moment of reflection was all I needed. I am a hoarder. WHAT? Mhmmm. Thats right. Though I refrain from collecting useless and space filling items in my small two bedroom flat, I do collect emotions. Twenty-one years old and I am hoarding day old feelings like they are going out of style. As if my already hormonally charged heart and mind had room to spare.

You see I am not your average girl. I embody the stereotypical horoscope reading of a cancer. Yes, I am that bright red crab. Though horoscopes only serve a purpose of entertainment in my life, I can't help but give the cold shoulder to the genius who pinpointed me their description of July babies.

I am that crab. Sure, we all are a little 'crabby' at times, but I am not talking about my ever fluctuating mood. No. This is more of a lifestyle evaluation we are talking about. I bolster up a hard fascade, Rihanna forever echoing in my head 'I, I, I, I'm so hard...yea yea yea so hard.' It sends shivers down my spine. You see you can't break me. Exterior so resilient Teflon should be tempted to use me as a test dummy. But then again, thats the game of the crab. Hard outer shell. All to protect that pillow top mattress soft core that is so easily damaged it has no choice but to enlist armies of thousands to protect it's gates.

I used to believe that my toughened outer coat was enough to block one's vision to my inner marshmallow. Painted that armor with black. Chilled it too. Cold and hard. Shoot, I was stronger than a crab. No shiny steel utensils could break me down. I was invincible. Oh, but how foolish was I. Everyone knows that crabs are harboring that delicious soft meat. Thats the whole reason we order it. And just because we can't see it, doesn't mean we don't know its there, hiding behind cartilage and pinchers, just waiting to be boiled.

Like the meat, my emotions stayed hidden. Sitting with their backs against the door, on cold floors, and in dark rooms. Shivering. Fearing detection, they were forced not to make a sound. Emotions piled so high on top of each other one could easily mistake my overcrowded soul as a slave ship. Carrying 'unwanted' emotions to foreign land where they would be dismissed and mislabeled. Sold and exchanged to maximize profit. You see I thought someone had told me that if I neglected to realize my emotions for what they were, and forced them into work, then I could neglect them for as long as I wanted and still get the job done. And by job I mean life that is. But I guess my high school history teachers forgot to teach me my black history [in reality they refused to] because I wasn't aware that even emotions would be declared emancipation one day. And once free, well, lets just say they took up residence and refused to leave. And more importantly, they refused to be ignored. Holding strikes on my life until I recognized them. Marching through my veins until I gave them the respect that they deserved. Integrating themselves into my speech so I was forced to give them the same opportunities I gave my knowledge. Flowing through my tear ducts, so I had no other option but to pay attention to them. My emotions, sick and tired of being hoarded in dark corners, made an entrance into my world.

So what do I do now? I have fear, anger, sadness, loneliness, happiness, joy, regret, bitterness, hate, and love all living on the same block. How do I move forward knowing that I owe my emotions 21 years of back taxes. Seems to me that I just have to pay up. Sit in front of the blackened tv screen, stare in to the face of emotion, and listen to their story. I have no choice but to pull out the tea and crumpets, take notes, and build a plan to move forward. My only hope is that my No Emotion Left Behind plan works better than Bush's plan for the children. Because I can't afford to have poverty stricken, illiterate, and underdeveloped emotions anymore. I am too invested in me to neglect the emotions that really do matter.

I click off the tv just as Hoarders comes back from commercial break. I get it. Hoarding is a way of surviving. It keeps you just above the line functionality while appeasing your inner turmoil. Hoarding is fueled by fear. It's time to bring in my own professional team and clean this mess up. Roll the credits God, my hoarding days are over!