I have a lot of stuff, there's no denying that – now that it's put all together, and nothing is in storage any more. 90% of it is cellulose, meaning, obviously books, but also a vast packrattery of files and a smattering of wooden furniture. So I have dubbed it "my kingdom of (mostly) cellulose."
As I was moving the last of my book boxes (there are still many other non-book boxes to be moved) up to the attic, I had a sort of epiphany about Arthur and "stuff."
Arthur does not, in fact, perceive his house full of stuff as being "his" stuff. Rather, in his own mind, I think he believes that he has built and now maintains and staffs a kind of hotel for his extended family and friends. Thus he can self-honestly claim that he has almost no possessions, all while keeping his vast, well-apportioned "Rockpit Estate." 95% of what's in the house and on the property is not his, but rather, the "house's."
Because of this, he can't in fact relate – at all! – to my rather baroque collection of personal effects: knickknacks, mementoes, files, old gadgets, books… he sees the whole mass of it as excessive and unnecessary, because it is so clearly "mine" – unlike his collection, which is maintained "for other people," and which he simply makes use of, as the proprietor and sole staff member of his "hotel."
On the one hand, this is a great reflection of his core generosity of spirit. On the other hand, it means he lacks empathy, in the extreme, for my state of mind and my needs.
Everything up to this point has nothing to do with his recent traumatic brain injury. It's an aspect of his personality which has always been in play. What's changed is that he is now much less tolerant of deviations from what he expects, and he is frustrated and confused by the inaccessibility of other people's states of mind instead of seeming merely benignly uninterested, as has been his baseline behavior.
Thus he seems utterly bewildered by my desire to keep these things of mine, and by my interest in being surrounded by them. For me, having this kind of "nest" populated by my things is essential to me maintaining my sense of self. All the years in Korea, I was separated from a great portion of it, yet I was constantly adding to the collection, and defining my personal space by the objects that filled it. I could certainly survive that way. But I'm not ready to let go of all the things I'd set aside when I went to Korea – they always occupied not just the storage unit in Minnesota, but a substantial back room in my core identity. I don't know how to solve it.
I hope as he recovers, he can at least return to his benign ignorance of my otherness, instead of seeming to feel threatened by it. But meanwhile, we're having a bit of a struggle. Of course, I expected some aspects of settling in together would end up a struggle. But I didn't realize, I guess, that it would take this form.
[daily log: walking, 3km; boxes, ∞/4]
The silver lining is that at least Arthur will recognize the librarian in his attic.