Is it “Hobbies” or “Hoarding”: A cautionary tale.

March 4, 2024March 5, 2024 ~ Angela ~ 6 Comments

Welcome to another unfun grief-addled post here at Anna’s New Rome!

Setting: I just returned from Jeff’s storage unit in Virginia.
Warning: Strong language, marital issues.

Okay folks in the SCA, 501st, cosplay, military, and everything in between: We need to have a Very Serious Chat.

I am putting on no airs here: I own a lot of stuff, but I’ve also made a conscious effort to cull this stuff significantly in the last few years when I realized it was not sustainable anymore. Us who craft, especially in any form of reenactment or living history, have to juggle owning things for multiple people when it’s really just us. I have a whole room just for my SCA life, this includes a sewing table, cutting table, painting table, and all the accoutrements needed to do all of these things. And while that sounds reasonable, it gets out of hand very, very fast if you aren’t paying attention. It’s so easy to go on insane shopping sprees for fabric, trim, pigments, tools, etc when we do this, and that’s okay, but we need to remember to USE these things and to part with those that no longer serve their purpose. The problem, as many of us addressed when faced with our imminent mortality since 2020, is the “sunk cost fallacy,” which is what I struggle with the most. But every time I throw out bags of junk, I feel more free. Right now I’m staring at my entertainment center and wondering if I can take this on this coming weekend and really get rid of a lot of extraneous bric-a-brac. I’m that over it.

When lived in Providence, I still had this whole room, but I had a hard time managing it, often having to call in friends to help me figure shit out because the executive dysfunction of ADHD would win every damn time. This just got worse in Portsmouth, which is when I decided NO MORE, and started to manage my belongings better when it came to a cross-country move to San Diego, despite Jeff glittering the ceiling with pewter and lead when he got a bit too torch-happy indoors. Unfortunately, San Diego is when Jeff really took over.

We didn’t have a garage in Portsmouth or Providence, we did in San Diego. And despite leaving items in storage in New Hampshire, he insisted on getting more out west, starting with the Bug and all of the tools needed to work on her. This seems benign, and it felt that way, because it was contained in the garage and I managed to keep a pretty tidy home there, but Jeff was also not home a lot, it being sea duty, so I didn’t get the full brunt of what hoarding really looked like until Jacksonville, and especially, COVID.

I need to remind folks that the Jacksonville move was not good. He had orders back to Groton that were stripped and replaced with a Kings Bay hot fill. This was enough to make me actually have a nervous breakdown because I had a home and a job lined up in Connecticut, developed mood disorders, and have to begin therapy after a fun stay on the grippy socks floor at Balboa. (People forget that the military life generally sucks, and it’s not the aristocratic nostalgia for wartime glam that some assume it is.) I also assume this is about when Jeff started to become sick, only we had no idea. Between the two of us struggling, cleaning was not always easy, but I managed to always pull it off, no matter how shitty I felt, because being a Florida native I know what can happen if things get nasty. *shudder*

But, Jeff didn’t just get out of control with the Bug, he got out of control with the bar, brewing, moneying, and 3D printing at the same time I was trying to make a living with silk painting and sewing thanks to being unable to find decent work in Jacksonville, and later Norfolk. Remember: milspouses are discriminated in the workplace because we’re seen as temps, so trying to find work, even with my resume from CA, was impossible on the East Coast. So every room in the house had a project. Every. One. The dining room was where I painted silk. The library became the 3D printing lab alongside my jewelry bench, the garage became an epicenter of pure madness and the bar appeared in the middle of this in the dining room and then lanai. It was too much. When Covid hit and we were both home, at first it sounded like a great way to catch up, but it just got worse. I ended up not sewing the nifty fabrics I bought to make cute dresses, he didn’t use the piles of lumber he bought to make furniture. He also wasn’t out there working on the Bug, citing Florida heat in the garage, but still buying parts for it. I brought this up to my therapist and she warned me that it was going to balloon if I didn’t nip it in the bud. Hoarding behavior, even when started as benign, is a form of addiction, addiction to consumerism, and the _idea_ of project completion, and if projects are not coming to fruition, then the supplies are now a hoard, and need to be dealt with. This was the time when I should have gone to Oxford for my paper on the Marian Relics, but because of Covid, I opted to go to visit Bestie for a week and help him untangle his father’s estate and the last of his grandmother’s belongings.

So there I was, going through boxes and boxes of someone else’s things, getting a firsthand account of what happens when you die and your possessions become “somebody else’s problem”, and it was also when the Cymbalta they gave me for fibromyalgia caused tardive dyskinesia and amplified my depression. I got back to Jacksonville off an emotional rollercoaster into a house that I left Jeff in unsupervised for a week, and threatened to walk into the Atlantic Ocean. Instead, I got carted back to therapy twice a week and told to stop taking the pills and I would feel better. At this point we already knew we were moving to Norfolk, they just weren’t settled on the timeline yet. I was angry that we had to deal with another move, surrounded by junk, and wanting none of this. So, one day, I called him at work, which I rarely did because calling base is one of those, “This needs to be urgent” calls, yeah well, direct line to his desk, and I just unloaded on him:

“You get the fuck home right now and clean this place up, or I am taking my things and the cat home to Tampa for good.”

He did come straight home. He did straighten up, but what I wasn’t seeing is that his “cleaning” was shoving random things into bins. These are the doom boxes I had to look at in Norfolk this weekend. This didn’t stop. He didn’t stop. He insisted he wasn’t a hoarder, but a packrat (really?) and there were regular fights about how he managed his belongings. So, we started couple’s therapy that summer with my therapist who needed to attempt to hammer it into his head what was going on. This was also about when he started having visible symptoms of cancer and getting ignored by the Navy, so in hindsight my behavior feels awful, or, maybe, I wasn’t hard enough. Jeff had me leave when the movers came for our things because of the “anxiety” I would have watching them touch my things, and to get Harald out of the way so he didn’t flip out either, but that didn’t stop me from seeing the bins and bins that went into the now 2-car garage we had in Norfolk, which just gave him more space to collect more tools.

We never really fully settled in up there. I hated it immediately, I was unable to find work because of the pandemic and obvious Navy base resume, so that’s when I started applying for PhD programs after a lengthy discussion with him on what I needed to do with my life to be happy. The answer was to get out of there, away from him, in my own space while he finished up the last 2 years in the Navy as it would be mostly deployment anyway, and we could both downsize and work on our issues. It wasn’t separation, it was geo-baching, but my unhappiness with his hoarding was becoming a major issue, and he promised me that he would go through all of his junk and such and get rid of what he could. I have no doubt it started like this, there is a rhyme and reason to the rear of the storage unit, but the bins and bins and bins say otherwise. I don’t want to say I was lied to, but neither of us knew what was coming, so I assume that he planned to just address it during his time in port.

*What my brother and I opened the door to.*

This all makes me feel terrible, but also angry. When we rolled that door up on Friday afternoon I could have spat. The first thing on my mind was “gas can”, but that’s irrational, no matter how fun it sounds. I knew I would have help. I knew this needed to be tackled. But I also know I shouldn’t have had to do this. He had warning that his hoarding made me loathe his existence, that it was the catalyst that was well on the way to destroy our marriage, and now it’s entirely on my shoulders. All of his years of accumulated junk tools from Harbor Freight, a completely disassembled 1976 VW Sun Bug, and whatever else he had on top of four 3D printers, a shelf of filament, all of our collective brewing materials and camping equipment. Hell, there’s a full oak barrel in there used to age stout.

This is not just a vent, this is a cautionary tale: It is not sustainable or healthy to live like this. While you may not think that your precious “collections” harm anybody, they are. We couldn’t have friends over in Jacksonville because I never knew what the house would look like.

I’ve also made it perfectly clear, many times, that books are a Problem. I have almost all the books, I found ONE box up there (thank god). Everything else is here, and I cut my stacks by half last year. You need to keep a working collection, not piles. I cannot stress this enough as a former librarian and archivist: Books can actually kill you, and the answer is not “more shelves.” They attract major pests and mold, in addition to being heavy and unstable if not shelved correctly. If you haven’t read a book in over 10 years: get rid of it. If it’s a scholarly publication that has had updated research in the last 20 years: Get rid of it. This is not a joke. I am serious, and I make these posts regularly to remind people to weed your collection. Libraries do this for a reason, and if you want a working library in your home, you need to act like it.

Fabric can also kill you. It attracts pests and mold, much like books. Even when stored appropriately the natural decay of cellulose and protein creates dust, and that causes microscopic issues around your home including making you ill. If you’ve been saving a special linen for a decade or so, there’s a good chance it may not survive the sewing process if you don’t live in a home with central AC, or worse, you store it in storage or a garage. Get rid of it.

PLA is biodegradable. My guess is that most of those tubs of 3D printing material in there are full of goo, not filament, but I won’t know until I can open every single one of them.

Jeff left a mess of tools. Some are very expensive and carry value, but that’s just some, and I have most of them here already. Those bins and bins and bins of Harbor Freight doodads? Junk. Pot metal. I may not even be able to recycle them, so I have to figure out how to safely dispose of all of this when I’m not a resident of Norfolk and have no access to their dump facilities. There’s also bins of flammable and caustic chemicals still in there because we have no idea what to do with them until I can do more research and determine the cost of disposal. The two shelves in the middle were full of spray paint that was exploding. We removed them and were able to dispose of the paint.

Storage after the first “recon” mission. The trailer was given away, the center shelves were removed. We did 5 loads of large trash, and have empty bins and a ton of Damp Rid in there to help us when we return.

The reason for this post is that I know I’m not alone. I know that there are many of my friends and associates out there that have piles and piles in their garages, a timebomb of “that’s somebody else’s problem after we die.” Don’t do this, please. Consider the future and the impact you’re leaving on others and the planet. Consider the burden your loved ones will inherit when you do, eventually, shove off this mortal coil. While it’s not easy, or cheap, to juggle the living history life, we need to do better for ourselves, our mental health, and our loved ones. Don’t leave them with a sketchy storage unit 5 states away and the monetary burden it will be to disperse and dispose of it.

If, after reading this, you’re still on team, “They who die with the most books/fabric/tools/insert junk here, wins!” I beg you to reconsider.

No, Jeff didn’t know he was going to die, but there’s a chance neither will you. Please don’t leave your partner in the same predicament I am in. I miss him terribly and this weekend was a horrifically emotional journey, but if necromancy was real, I’d kill him again for this.

The SCA and death.

August 1, 2023August 1, 2023 ~ Angela ~ 2 Comments

The Arms of Gieffrei de Toesni, memorialized by the Memorial Shield Project

This post has been in the wings for a bit. It was not easy for me to write and I kept putting it off.

Oh March 18^th, 2023, The Honorable Lord Gieffrei de Toesni, known as Jeff the Moneyer, Order of the Maunche and Order of the Silver Crescent of the East Kingdom, beloved populace of Trimaris and former populace of Caid and Atlantia, passed from this mortal coil after a short but fiery war with a rare, aggressive form of cancer found only 8 months prior. He was two weeks sky of turning 42 years old. I was by this side when he took his last breath, as our adopted daughter Aethelflied Brewbane felt his heart stop, and as Konstantia Kaloethina held my hand.

Aethelflied, a death doula, and I performed the sacred post-mortem, clothing him in a shroud made from his Manazan tunic and trimmed in fine Sartor brocade silk that was to be used for his eventual elevation to Laurel or Pelican. We felt the warmth depart from his body as I poured a libation of Guinness beer into his mouth for one final time. Coins that he struck himself were placed over his eyes to pay Charon so that he may cross the River Styx. We did shots of Jameson in the hospice room, that, ironically, was decorated with swallows.

Jeff’s shroud: His Manazan caves tunic, trimmed in fine silk brocade by Aethelflied.

We cried hysterically as his body was wheeled out under the American flag to Taps, the only ones who came to watch his service to the nation end. The next day was filled with the usual chaos following any death: The funeral home arrangements, people bringing us food to my parents’ house to comfort myself, my immediate family, and his, who were in town but couldn’t bear to spend another day watching him waste away in a hospice bed. The Navy showed up, of course, and the paperwork to ensure I wouldn’t be starving for the rest of my life was completed while Aethelflied and Konstantia took messages for me.

…within hours I had people asking for his belongings, both mundane and SCAdian.

This is not uncommon with death, unfortunately, in fact I was regaled with horror stories of people breaking into homes while families sat shiva or church “friends” putting stickers on items around a home to claim them. But this was maddening. His VW Beetle was the top request, followed by his moneying materials, a certain tunic, or drinking horn, or or or, the list goes on.

I stared at my messages in disbelief, especially since I had asked for peace and privacy. How could people who are part of a club that purports grace, chivalry, and courtesy be so selfish? Didn’t I have enough on my plate?

Facebook accounts were blocked, text messages were responded to with vitriol, and we made the decision that when we emptied storage that someone with a concealed weapons permit should be present.

“He would have wanted me to have this.”

I’m sorry, who are you again?

The tent is still in storage. So is the bug, so is everything, because it takes time to liquidate a life, and I should be granted time to mourn with those that came to support me, not watching best friends of mine telling random people I haven’t spoken to in five years to screw. It was awful and disheartening, but it didn’t stop there.

“You need to come to Pennsic.” There was no asking, “You need to come to Pennsic. We’ll put up the tent for you, just bring garb. His arms need to be on the boat.”

It was less than 24 hours after he passed. I became anxious and mortified that plans were being made for me, and him, without my consent. I eventually just started replying to every message with a single “No.” And left it at that. I imagined being confined to a room without a door, but shadows of people banging on the walls and windows to be let in. It was insane. It was unkind, and I don’t think I will ever mentally recover from any of this.

Again, this is not limited to the SCA, but I didn’t have any of his Navy shipmates reaching out for his things. If anything, they were the first to send monetary aid or gift cards for food, laundry services, and groceries.

My immediate family lives the next county over, so it’s not like they’re distant, but not close enough for daily help. I was told to go stay with my parents. I refrained. I figured I needed to get this over with sooner than later.

Ever see a cat grieve? Oh my god. My poor Harald. He hid in my craft room for 3 months, coming out for food, pets, and the occasional bit of attention before sequestering himself in there on a cat bed, sleeping the day away and not grooming himself.

Harald enjoying a moment with his daddy during Jeff’s final months.

For 2 weeks after I hid in my house, trying to catch back up on schoolwork that I was floundering on as a result of his sudden turn and passing, and trying not to fail out of my PhD program. I made plans to go to Malta for an archaeological dig, and then some additional time in Europe visiting friends in Germany. I’d be gone for a full month abroad, making Pennsic not possible. This made people angry. Those people got blocked. My non-SCA best friend who I’ve known longer than anybody other than my parents helped me do the big cull of Jeff’s mundane clothing and objects, and reminded me to take care of myself. His SCA life started to slowly disperse across the SCAverse.

My grief is not something to display like heraldry. My grief is my own. And while I invite all to grieve with me of course, I knew damn well that I would be paraded around like some dark royalty and I didn’t want, or need that. To be honest, I don’t know when I will ever return to Pennsic. I don’t want to at the moment. The pictures are destroying me, especially of those around my camp and the surrounding blocks.

He will not be there.

The bar will not be there.

The tent will not be there.

Everything that made Pennsic “ours” is gone. There is no more “us”, it is only “me”. And that is a loneliness that not even a two week event of 10,000+ people can fill. It’s not that I can’t do it, of course, I’ve solo-Pennsic’d and evented many times considering his Navy career, but I don’t want to. Because I know it won’t be the same. I know that by the time I finally make it back, some jerk will tell me to stop crying and get over it, because they haven’t yet discovered that grief is a non-linear menace.

I need to sell the round tent, it’s too big for just me and I don’t have the means to transport it, but I know that people are waiting for me to just give up and offer it for free. I also want to be picky about who I sell it to, which just makes it worse. I almost want to keep it out of spite, but I don’t have the space. It’s still in storage in Virginia, with our bar, his armor, and a full ¾ of our SCA life I haven’t been able to get to yet. I won’t be telling anybody when I get up there to empty it. Hell, aside from the car, I may even just make that my final Navy move, bring everything to Florida, and deal with it when I can despite the cost of storage.

I need to sell the flatbed trailer, because I’m not getting an SUV or truck anytime soon that will allow me to tow it. I’ve already given his truck to my brother who desperately needed a car. Again, someone is just going to wait for me to give it up for free. I may as well sell it for scrap. The VW has a home.

(Do not, and I mean, DO NOT, dare message me asking to purchase any of these things. When they are listed on public sites like SCA yard sale, that is your chance.)

His tools are all going to people I have chosen specifically to receive them. His scribal kit is now mine. His armor will forever be enshrined on a stand in my living room.

I sold a great deal of his garb to newcomers at Trimaris Memorial Tourney (Spring Crown), it gave me a significant amount of spending money to bring to Malta, which I figured I would use to treat myself to something nice.

The month abroad didn’t provide me with the reset it craved, because every piece of ancient and medieval architecture I took in reminded me of him. The cancer center calling me at 9pm CEST because insurance was playing chicken made it even worse. My mental exhaustion coupled with the physical exhaustion of excavation weakened my immune system and the medieval experience I craved became a little too real when I contracted a superbug version of shigella, or dysentery. Considering my affinity for hand wipes and washing, we have no idea where I picked it up other than careless preparation of food or a momentary encounter in a busy airport. This destroyed the relaxing week I had planned in Germany, and a 2-week recovery back in the states that resulted in an additional ER visit for fluids. I still haven’t fully recovered from the severe dehydration and inflammation, and it’s been nearly a month.

All I wanted was some peace, and I wasn’t even granted that. I am now tasked with moving to a new apartment while fighting with receiving his benefits so I can afford it. It’s not a lot, I will never not have a job, and I am not permitted to get married again until I’m over the age of 55. All this, and I keep getting asked why I’m not at Pennsic. The world does not stop for the SCA.

Two days before I departed for Malta, King Hans of the West died suddenly, and I watched the whole thing go down again, but knew better than to reach out to Duchess Helga or Queen Ciar. They asked for privacy, and I would give it to them for as long as they wished, knowing damn well that people were ignoring that.

When you play in a game that is 50% popularity contest, when you attain peerage, when you run a blog and become a favorite personality among people, you become a celebrity, and while this can be great fun, in the worst cases, it’s jarring and uncomfortable, and I wish more people understood this.

It doesn’t matter how many people want to talk to you or send thoughts, the death of my husband is the single loneliest experience I have every felt in my life because that’s what grief does. Period. Full stop. For every person that told me I was strong, I wanted to counter with a punch in the face. For every person that offered me “moral support” instead of coming over to do my laundry, I wanted to punch in the face. For every person that sent me “thoughts and prayers” instead of Doordash I wanted to punch in the face, and so on. I wish I could explain this, because none of these folks did anything wrong, and their words were not necessarily empty, they were just at a distance and a loss of what they could do to help, but all I could muster in return was a shallow “thank you”, and manifestations of anger unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. Plenty of people helped, I always had food on my plate, gas in my car, and the rent was paid, but it didn’t stop the loneliness. Once the guests that were here for the small backyard wake we had left, the silence was deafening. Jeff’s arms from the Memorial Shield Project disappeared from accounts on Facebook, and life continued.

Jarring and uncomfortable.

I am going to post the Ring Theory for those that need to read about it. I think it’s important not just in the case of the SCA, but also for anybody who is experiencing a traumatic event, especially death.

https://psychcentral.com/health/circle-of-grief-ring-theory

https://www.latimes.com/opinion/op-ed/la-xpm-2013-apr-07-la-oe-0407-silk-ring-theory-20130407-story.html

Grief is non-linear. I am not better now than I was in March, and Pennsic wasn’t going to fix that. I am not going to be okay ever again, and you know what? THAT IS OKAY TOO. I am never not going to be grieving Jeff, and the life we had and the one we had planned. He was a year from retiring from the Navy, and the adventures were being planned. This summer, we had a hopeful pipe dream of going to the UK and hiking the Pilgrim’s Way from Southwark to Canterbury. Instead I’m moving to a new apartment paying $600 more a month so I don’t have to look at the cancer center and VA hospital every day when I leave the house. I will never not miss our crazy projects, his ADHD explosions of SCA crafts all over the house (which honestly used to make me lose my mind) and his greasy smile after a day of working on the Bug. I will never not miss watching our favorite shows together, I have yet to finish the Mandalorian’s most recent season and don’t know if I’m ready to yet. I don’t know how to fix the 3D printers properly. I won’t miss the screaming at each other we did before each Pennsic, but I will miss the cool dewy nights at our camp bar or cuddling on our bed in the tent, looking up at the kaleidoscope of blue and green of our colored canvas as the sun rose at events in three different kingdoms. I’m going to miss our hiking trips into national parks and marveling of the natural beauty of the US. I’m going to mourn the future that was taken from me for as long as I need to. One day, I will see our tent somewhere else. It will hurt, but I know it’s bring someone joy, the same joy Jeff had when he ordered it in his colors.

Jeff in is element: Filthy at Pennsic after digging for clay to make paint.

Us in our Norman finest with our tent and bar behind us.

Be gentle to those you know in the SCA that have experienced loss. Give them the space they ask for. Help them when they ask. Don’t assume you will be given anything of the deceased’s belongings and keep your tantrums about it to yourself. The bereaved are not your jewelry, do not wear them at events, instead, make sure they’re eating, drinking, and that vultures and collectors are kept at bay.

A medieval village would come together in times of crisis to help their community, the SCA should be doing the same.

Jeff’s time in the SCA is not finished. His ashes are with me, and his art and service will continue in different forms inspiring others.