Traveling a little farther down the hallway would have brought you to the common space that Shuer shared with his two roommates—a space that they had come to call "the museum room." In addition to Shuer's extensive collection of vintage Atari video games and related paraphernalia—Pac-Man board games and action figures—the room contained numerous bobble heads and kitsch from 1970s and '80s; nine milk crates stuffed with hundreds of eight-track tapes; furniture that he planned to refurbish; pile of newspapers, magazines and his artwork; and an assemblage of curious salt and pepper shakers—a mouse and slice of cheese, a dog and fire hydrant.
Like many people, Shuer collected things in his youth—baseball cards, coins, cool rocks—but his childhood collections never became unusually large or disorderly. After college he bounced from place to place with few possessions. But when he settled down in an apartment in Northampton, Mass., in 2000 he began collecting much more avidly than in the past. He spent his weekends and spare time visiting Goodwill, the Salvation Army and tag sales in search of his next acquisition—the more intriguing and unusual, the better. Sometimes he would visit a thrift shop on his lunch break rather than eat.
The objects and bric-a-brac that Shuer collected provided a sense of comfort, helping him overcome his social anxiety. He was not confident that he was interesting and likeable—but he knew his collection was. If he offered a guest a cup of coffee in an eccentric mug, for example, he could depend on the mug itself to spark a conversation. Soon enough, Shuer had filled his newfound space with enormous piles of stuff. His roommates were remarkably patient, given the circumstances, but they repeatedly gave Shuer an ultimatum: Clear up this mess or we will throw everything out. Shuer would move some items from the common space into his room and continue collecting. The thought of discarding even a single item caused him too much pain—a mingling of sadness and worry that he might need the object one day.
Today, Shuer, 38, lives with his wife Becca in a three-bedroom house in Easthampton that Shuer describes as 85 percent decluttered. When they first moved into the house in 2006 Shuer brought just about everything from his previous apartments with him. His collection completely filled one of the bedrooms on the second story, so that barely an inch of floor space was visible; it spilled out along the stairways, found resting spots on top of the fridge and kitchen cabinets, crowded the living room and claimed half the basement. Now, their living room needs only a little tidying here and there when guests come over. The stairwell leading to the second story is completely free of mess. The kitchen is for kitchen stuff. And Shuer is making good progress on the basement. Through an innovative series of peer-organized workshops designed to help people with excessive clutter—the Buried in Treasures program—Shuer has learned to catch himself in the act of acquiring something he does not have the space for, to challenge his beliefs about the true value of his possessions, and to gradually get rid of things he does not need without mourning their loss.
Most psychiatrists would diagnose Shuer with compulsive hoarding, which is defined as the excessive accumulation of stuff and the refusal to discard it, resulting in problematic clutter. In addition to interfering with daily activities such as cooking and sleeping, extreme clutter often increases health risks from poor sanitation, makes it more difficult to get out of the house in a fire or other emergency and puts the hoarder in danger of eviction. Compulsive hoarders often have other mental illnesses as well: 50 percent have major depressive disorder and 48 percent have either anxiety or social phobia, according to various surveys. In recent years the general public has become more aware of hoarding than ever before, thanks in part to shows such as A&E's Hoarders and TLC's Hoarding: Buried Alive. Many researchers and hoarders—who often prefer to call themselves collectors or clutter bugs—argue, however, that such shows focus on extreme examples and that their sensationalism obscures the reality of day-to-day life for most hoarders. Studies published in the last 10 years have changed the way psychologists and psychiatrists think about compulsive hoarding and contradicted a number of popular assumptions about people with extensive clutter.
by Ferris Jabr, Nature/Scientifc American | Read more:
Photo: Michael Maloney/San Francisco Chronicle/Corbis
