Disposophobia

Disposophobia

She had always kept everything.  Ticket stubs, receipts, the torn-off edges of notebook paper.  Any doodles or scribbled ideas, and any note afforded her by a friend were kept and saved.  Not everything received the honor, but particular things from specific events did.  She wanted to keep track of each and every thing she had ever done.  She did so, on a corkboard encircling her room from floor to ceiling; each day had its spot, and one could trace her life along the wall with the zigzagging strings of yarn that connected each day.

She didn't often invite others into her room, for fear they might displace something, either by accident or purpose.  A fear of forgetting had encircled her heart, and she did this as her blatant struggle to hold on to everything.  Thus, apart from the walls, her room was clean and ordered.  Her bookshelf was neatly ordered (alphabetically, of course) and each bauble sat proudly in its place.  Her clothes were organized by type of clothing, then color, and it was quite a pretty picture, the rainbows contained in her closet.

It was the walls, though, that caught your attention, if you were ever lucky enough to visit her sanctuary.  You would probably even find mentions of you, in photos and notes.  You might even find a slip of paper noting the day you became friends.  It was the kind of thing that shamed you, because you should have been keeping better track of your life, scrapbooking or taking photos all the time, but you never quite managed to do it.

She always caught people taking in as much as they could as they left her room, and she understood, though she disliked it.  To them, it was an interesting, almost awe-inspiring quirk that they envied, in a way.  She understood also that they didn't really understand.  They didn't know about the writing under all the clutter.

They didn't understand that it was all she had.