The Bits and Pieces of a Hoarder

At a Second Cup on the corner of King West and John streets, Carol* sits across from me at a back table in a black blazer and white blouse, her dark jeans pulling the look together in a smart-casual sort of way. She’s somewhat tentative, looking down before making eye contact, sipping on the chilled green tea before her while carefully revealing pieces of a story that many are too ashamed to tell. She flips her cellphone intermittingly, taking a call, checking the time, not wanting to be away too long from the design firm where she works as an interior designer with a penchant for simple spaces. And yet herein lies the disparity: this shipshape woman – blond hair bordering flushed cheeks and an emerald gaze, lined precisely with eyeliner, framed with dainty eyeglasses – can’t do for herself what she does for others. Her home instead is a blueprint for an underground psychopathological design: Read more