Was it the crate of saved wrapping paper, carefully archived by colour? Or the sheath of car tax discs, dating back to my first vehicle (owned 16 years ago), stored in a monogrammed wallet that did not bear my initials? No, it was the sweet little pillbox, shiny in its innocence, that revealed the greatest horror: every tooth I have ever lost. Further grotesque inspection determined that, alongside fragmented baby fangs were wisdom teeth – suggesting that the filing system had been upheld for quite some years. If I’d kept them this long, perhaps I should still hang on to them, I reasoned. As always, an attempt to chuck things out had been thwarted. I have always collected. It started with pencils, soaps and china animals, progressing to more mainstream hobbyist items: stamps, coins and gem stones. My childhood fossil collection expanded into acquiring rocks and stones more generally, until my bedroom was full of museum-like pockets, each group neatly curated. As a Brownie, my collector’s badge was awarded for my collection of collections, the assessor agog at the sheer number of cigarette cards, beads and Fimo models on display. I loved books and sheet music, too, and it was broadly accepted that this need to keep and arrange things – often in ways that made no sense to others – was part and parcel of a curious mind. But as time went on, there were signs that the collecting was not entirely benign. While others seemed to be able to declutter on a semi-regular basis, the idea of getting rid of things made me tense and unhappy. A wardrobe clear-out with friends would inexplicably end in frayed emotions. I still vividly remember the lime-green Liz Claiborne trousers, bought at a clearance sale, that were prised from my arms during one session. They did not fit or suit me, yet I could not bear to part with them. I kept my carefully filed GCSE notes in case I needed them for my A-levels, then my A-level notes for my degree, and those notes for – well, I’m not quite sure. You never know when you might need an explanation of photosynthesis via the medium of spider diagrams, I told myself. Living in a small flat on a small budget exacerbated the situation. I saw potential use in every scrap of material and could not say no to anything I was offered, including a lawnmower (I do not have a garden). Working as a classical music journalist pre-Covid meant receiving regular batches of CDs and vinyl, which I’d also started collecting. I’d developed climate anxiety and was reluctant to add anything at all to landfill. I used tins as plant pots, filled the cupboards with plastic wrappers for “art” projects. Soon, my extensive range of Marmite jars took over the kitchen. It felt ungrateful to relieve myself of unwanted gifts, so I kept everything. Entire walls were filled with framed pictures, shelves packed with curios – some of which I didn’t even like. In her response to a photo of the teeth I had found, my sister gently used the word “hoarding”. I was aghast. Hoarders are the people you see in sensationalist documentaries, where some poor man has to crawl into his home due to the amount of stuff in it. My things were nicely organised and interesting – if I was an aristocrat it would simply be eccentric, I thought. Friends in large houses with garages and outbuildings had far more stuff than I owned. Still, I looked up the term. Mental health charity Mind’s summary was both unsettling and reassuring: “You should arrange or dispose of things perfectly or not at all”, “You won’t cope with how you’ll feel if you throw things away” and, excruciatingly, “Someone who doesn’t recognise they have a hoarding problem might call themselves a ‘collector’”. That last one was a low blow. What about my Brownie badge? It might have started when I kept a scribbled-down score from a momentous game of Uno or bought a fridge magnet from a souvenir shop, but my practice of collecting was undoubtedly stoked by traumatic experiences that happened to me in between those happy moments. Hoarding is still a relatively unexplored area of mental health, partly because it often presents alongside other conditions, like bipolar disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, depression and anxiety. It may be the case that the hoarding can only be addressed once other symptoms have been treated, because, like all mental illnesses, it requires a challenging level of acceptance and self-reporting. I had developed an unconscious belief that I could only remember nice times if I had a visual prompt. During happy periods, I clung on to every receipt, stub and cutting to keep me safe. Somewhere along the way, the collector had lost control of the collection. The tidying up, when it started, happened in stages. The first time I filled the black bin with a carefully cleaned jars – kept for decades in case I ever added to my button collection – I cried. I woke when the collection came the next morning, suppressing the urge to run after the lorry containing my wonderful treasures. I stopped looking on Freecycle and started saying no when people offered things I didn’t really need – or even want. I sold my collection of Marmite jars for a surprisingly high amount on eBay, and I learned to accept that sometimes, though it is painful, not everything can be recycled. I received such a beautiful welcome from my local Oxfam when I went there for the first time, laden with bags and emotion, that my weekly visit became something to look forward to rather than dread, the kind manager allowing me to empty out the bag for one last look when I needed it, which was often. A year into this journey and I have got rid of a third of my possessions – including the teeth. I’ll never be able to condense everything I own into just a few boxes, like nomads do, but I feel freer and healthier. Just don’t ask me to tell you about photosynthesis. Claire Jackson is a journalist who writes about classical music, art and animals