I have to admit, I’m a bit of a hoarder. I blame it on genetics. My grandma was the queen of hoarding. My bedroom is, shall we say, a little cluttered. It’s not really surprising when you consider that I’ve been living in it for nigh on 18 years. I still love it though. It says so much about me. For one thing it is jam-packed full of giraffes! I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that type of stock-piling. It makes my room cosy and reassuring. But there is a slightly less healthy side of hoarding. It’s probably best illustrated by my unwillingness to get rid of my violin.
I started playing the violin when I was roughly 9 years old. I shudder to think of the pain that I put my poor parents’ ears through, but by the time I reached 13 I could play fairly decently (I can’t remember if I got to Grade 3 or 4, but it was about that level). I enjoyed it immensely. I was always quite a musical kid and I loved playing in the school orchestra (where my mistakes weren’t so obvious!). Then along came the M.E. and I couldn’t even hold the violin in place long enough to use it. That’s been the case for 10 years now and yet my much-loved violin is still in the back of the wardrobe in our spare room. I just can’t bring myself to part with it. I suppose that ultimately it’s a fairly harmless thing to hang on to. But it is perhaps symptomatic of an unwillingness to move on and accept that I’ll never play it again. On the other hand maybe it’s a symbol of the hope that I have, that one day I might be well enough to start again. I’m not sure, but either way I have a feeling that the poor little un-played instrument is still going to be living in that wardrobe for a few years to come.
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