Belongings and Belonging: American Hoarder in Japan

 

Belongings and Belonging: American Hoarder in Japan

“You don’t belong here,” says the voice. “This place is too fancy for you. A condo? By the ocean? Did you forget living in a trailer? What are you even doing here?” It demands. “What kind of a joke is this?”

And I don’t always have an answer. Yes, I do. I think. Sometimes. I belong with my husband and daughter. I belong where I am happy. I deserve to be here. A lot of hard work got me here, and it’s not for nothing.

This doesn’t really help the part of me that still feels like a kid up past her bedtime, as if there is something secret or forbidden happening here and if I leave, I’ll never find out what it is, like the end of a cheesy late night horror flick. I’ve seen apprentice geisha dance, watched fake ninja fights, stayed in numerous love hotels, hiked the Nakasendo (Ancient Samurai Highway), practically bathed in sakura petals, and explored enough castles to have serious opinions as to their quality. Yet there is more, so much more, waiting somewhere to be found. Only this month did I see a festival I had never seen before and enjoy a fried pork bun for the first time.

Going “home” is unthinkable— that’s admitting defeat! Giving up on fun! How could I do such a thing as ending my adventure early?

Early, though, no longer applies. Seven years abroad has eaten the remainder of my twenties and left me with a family I never imagined having here but would never want to be without. Regardless of belonging, I can’t leave, and wouldn’t have any reason to uproot what we have here. Life is more complicated than it was when I landed on these shores, but even with these new complications, the same old urges arise.

When I get a surge of what I call “Gaijin-itis” or “swelling of the foreigner” in which I feel utterly lost in this place I’ve called home for nearly a decade, I really want to shop. I want to spend enough money for Japan to accept me purely due to my economic impact, filling the whole of this tiny, fancy condo with knickknacks, kitch and clutter until only I can find my way around.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a problem with stuff. I always want more, even if it’s worthless, especially if it’s free. Anything and everything; even without a purpose, I want it all.

Moving Japan did nothing to cure this wanton appetite for acquisition, though it did put some nice limitations in place. Now, I can clutter a room with around one fourth as many possessions as I left strewn on the floors of the rent houses we departed in my youth. After a lot of soul searching, I have come to realize it was all about the departing. Moving so often as every couple of years meant that we weren’t like the families on TV with height markers on the door frame and memories breathing life into the house. There were no pictures taken in the rooms where we were standing, hanging on the same walls and reminding us of times gone by. Every place was new, and every move erased a little more of our history. Every new home had the potential to be our forever home, I seemed to think, and maybe if I just made it messy enough, we wouldn’t be able to leave.

Somehow, that never worked. Most of my possessions were lost every time, and I would spend months unintentionally putting together a new waist high clutter-maze. Whether this was to keep others out of my room or keep my family in the house, I am not quite sure, but likely both have some truth to them.

Now, at the age of thirty, I’m managed to confront some of those inner demons, and while my house is unlikely to win any cleanliness awards, it’s not so bad. The condo is cleaner than I thought I could keep a home and most importantly, it is safe for my toddler. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine. Organizing and storing are ongoing processes, but acquisition is not. The Gaijin-itis fades over time, and a good hug for my partner is usually as much as it takes to set my brain to right.

I’ve hung pictures on the wall and scattered ceramic versions of my college mascot around the house. Finally I have laid claim to a space without turning it into a landfill. The journey was long and arduous, and it’s far from over, but at long last, I live in a safe environment.

And I am keeping it that way.

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