Did Hoarding Take My Friend’s Life?
I watched his vigor slowly fade, and there was nothing I could do
To protect the privacy of those involved, the names in this story have been changed.
“G’night,” Ben says. “Heading back to the house.”
The house.
“Have you ever noticed that you don’t call your place ‘home’?” I ask.
He tips a solemn nod in my direction. “Because it isn’t.”
Ben’s wife is a hoarder. Over the couple of years that we’d been close friends, I’d slowly come to learn more about his daily reality through little comments, always delivered with a weary expression.
The house. The storage locker. The clutter collection.
Ben never called the place he returned to every night “home.” But as we spent more time together, I realized he did everything he could to avoid being there. It seemed whenever I went downtown, I bumped into Ben. Ben having lunch alone in a restaurant, with servers who knew him by name and knew exactly what he was going to order. Ben doing tai chi in the park on World Tai Chi Day. Ben attending parades, musical events, festivals. Always alone, but surrounded by people who knew him, at least superficially, and were happy to see his smiling face. But I saw the sadness behind his…
