Confessions of a Pack Rat | The Art of Collecting

“Being a Pack Rat is normal,” I thought. “There’s nothing wrong with collecting things.”

At least that’s what I told myself time and time again, but never fully believing it. I’d jump headfirst into a hobby, contributing to a collection to the nth degree — then do it all over again with a different category of objects. It was an obsession.

Something had to change.

* * * * *

Quite a few months have passed since my last blog post on the Best Spider-Man trilogy back in July. There have certainly been a vast number of factors that have impacted the delay between posts.

Taking up a full twelve-credit load at my local college certainly didn’t help my schedule.

My work in marketing is a never-ending sprint — not in a bad way, it just keeps me busy.

And then, there was my recent process of moving out. This in itself required a considerable amount of backbreaking labor for my roommate and I, given all of my stuff.

Which brings me to my topic of interest:

Material wealth.

I’ve referenced the fact that I just love being a pack rat many times over. Whether it’s a nosedive into the world of comic books, or a refusal to downsize my massive physical video game collection — I have had the propensity to amass objects of interest more than anyone else I’ve ever met.

It’s both a blessing and a curse.

The Early History

I guess my proclivity for being a pack rat began with Hot Wheels. Back when I was a navy brat, my family was stationed near Naples, Italy when I was six years old. I like to joke that I remembered only three things from that era: all the walking we had to do, the delicious gelato, and — most importantly — my Hot Wheels set.

The acquisition continued, I would estimate, clear until I was about 10 years of age. I remember glimpses of being utterly obsessed with the die-cast cars, and showing them off to other kids in the neighborhood with every chance I had. With about 100 or so cars in my possession, I thought about nothing more than simply adding to my collection.

That is, until I lost interest.

Then I entered the next phase of my former mad-collection years, which was, oddly enough, in smaller animatronic toys. Specifically, in the realm of Poo-Chi and Furbies. Something about a seemingly sentient, independently operating animal companion fascinated me.

Thankfully, this dark horse phase of my collection-oriented lifestyle was short-lived. I then transitioned to one of the most significant chapters in this personal anecdote: one that revolved around my Lego collection.

Building My Obsession

I was no stranger to Legos at that age. Heck, I was playing with them for as long as I can remember.

But the difference between this collection and previous ones was the fact that this one cost me money.

The Hot Wheels and Poo-Chi/Furby collections were mostly funded by my parents or other peers in the form of gifts. But the moment I received a weekly allowance and earned money, I thought (as most young tykes do) the money was best invested in my favorite toys, which was Legos at that time.

One constant that I recall for the building toys is how expensive they were — a facet that has only continued into the present day. Even back then I seem to remember parents complaining about how such a tiny box of plastic components could sell for so much. But even so, I still managed to build up a respectable collection worth hundreds, perhaps thousands of dollars.

Legos were dangerous for me.

Not only because of how expensive they were, but because of the different franchises that were included under the Lego company umbrella. If I got tired of Lego Bionicle, I could undertake a new interest in Lego Knight’s Kingdom. And after a season, if the medieval theme bored me, there were some sweet robot kits available from their Exo-Force IP.

This phase not only continued the pack rat mindset, but also kick-started my collector’s mentality. Instead of seeing these objects as toys, I began seeing them as items that held some sort of intrinsic value.

Resolving to treat my Lego sets with respect, I was extra-careful to not damage the components. I remember gatekeeping access to some of the minifigures from my friends; I was fearful that their grubby fingerprints might mar the precious paint jobs that were on the torso of the figurines.

Perhaps the largest shift in my collecting sensibilities was in my tendencies to keep the original boxes. I’d venture to say that most children at age 12 did not give two rips about their Lego box and tearing into the kit for the first time.

I, by contrast, would shamelessly shelf the boxes away in the back of my closet.

Why, you ask?

That’s a great question. I’d like to think I kept those boxes stored away with grand ideals of future investment, but the truth is: I don’t actually remember.

I just know that those earlier tendencies were a harbinger of things to come.

The Comical Chronicles

A couple years after I started amassing Legos in large quantities, I also began another collection: One that probably took up the most real estate of any collection I’ve ever owned in my life at this point in time.

Comic books.

My love for Marvel is no secret, but the affinity for the Stan Lee-created superheroes stemmed from the 90’s cartoons early on. From Fox’s Spider-Man series to the X-Men cartoon with the killer intro soundtrack, these were but a few of the many Marvel-related properties that grazed our TV screen.

But it wasn’t until I encountered the comic book rack at our local Navy Exchange store (since I was a navy brat stationed at Japan at the time) that yet another obsession began taking root internally. It was there I bought my very first comic book, Sensational Spider-Man #25.

One thing I quickly realized was how much more fragile comic books are compared to previous collections. Something as simple as looking at them wrong can cost them 10% of their overall market value.

I’m joking, of course.

But the reality is that those who take comic book collecting seriously are very, very careful with the way their items are handled. The Certified Guaranty Company (or CGC) has very strict parameters for how a comic book is graded. Something as seemingly miniscule as a creased corner can ding the comic’s place on the point scale, which is set along a spectrum of 1 – 10.

All that to say, I had begun my foray into a collection that was more delicate than anything I’ve undergone thus far. Those gatekeeping tendencies I mentioned earlier with my Lego figurines? They carried right into comic collecting, as comics were not something I had a particular interest in lending to my friends.

They became a collection that I staked not only sentimental value upon, but also value that was monetary.

Th Vicious Cycle

I could regale you with similar tales of my video games or board games, but I think I made my point:

I love collecting things.

In fact, the argument could be made that I obsess over being a pack rat about different categories of items. And the narrative is pretty much the same for every phase of collections I’ve gotten into:

• Discovery of Items
• Intense Research of Items
• Addictive Procurement of Items
• Waning Interest in Items
• Repeat

It’s a trajectory that reoccurs time and time again.

I’ve had candid discussions with a number of different peers in my life about this Propensity to Collect. Some saw it as an absolutely toxic trait. To be so obsessive about buying things was borderline oniomania, and very much fit the Biblical definition of debauchery.

And I didn’t completely disagree. It was problematic.

In fact, I had several “Come to Jesus” moments where I felt I needed to make a dramatic change internally. Some of those moments entailed trying to get rid of entire collections altogether to prove that I was more than a pack rat.

That I could be more valuable as a person than the stuff I would collect.

I think that’s why I took so much pride in these massive collections. It set me apart from others, being the guy on the block with the biggest video game or comic book collection. I mentioned how I had lived the life of a Navy brat for a good portion of my former years. One corollary of the Navy brat life was that my family never stayed in one place for very long.

Thus, perhaps I felt a need to show my worth through the large amount of cool stuff I accrued.

I might be speculating a bit on my childhood mentalities, but the outcome was still the same: I was subjecting myself to a vicious cycle of accumulating material wealth. I could name six or seven different instances of categorical infatuation with an item type, and something had to change.

What changed? Both nothing and everything.

Allow me to explain.

Cognitive Dissonance

The Theory of Cognitive Dissonance is basically this: people at nearly any given time will have two (or more) contrasting ideas, but then seek to bring them into cohesion, or make sense out of them.

For instance, I may see some dude in my apartment’s parking lot wearing nothing more than a set of Speedos and a swim cap.

The mere notion of a random guy wearing this skimpy ensemble outdoors in the middle of winter is a strange one. It might even give me slight concern. But my brain will quickly find a solution to explain away what is going on. Perhaps the guy is late for his swim meet, and is hoping his Uber will arrive quickly.

Or maybe he’s stepping out his element to film the next viral TikTok.

Even the action of choosing not to worry about this outdoor anomaly is in itself an act of Cognitive Dissonance — I’m purposefully suppressing active thought about the sight as to continue a normal mental train of thought.

That is, until I come across another mental roadblock that requires a solution.

Okay, so my intent with bringing this up is not to give you a psychology lesson. I mention it only because it was very much relevant to my ongoing problem of being a pack rat.

I alluded to the fact that I had some internal struggles with amassing large collections. And it was something I dealt with for years. Why did I feel the need to hoard similar types of objects?

Was there some void I was trying to fill?

Was I seeking approval from others by showing off my vast collection of PEZ dispensers or comic books?

And the answer is…maybe?

I don’t know that I ever found a direct answer to many of these personal questions. I’d have those qualms, but still move forward with contributing to whatever grand pile of junk was front-and-center in my life at that point in time.

Cognitive dissonance at its finest.

But one thing that did change everything for me was my mindset in this passion.

Bridging the Chasm

I grappled for years with this notion.

That is, the notion that I was engaging in an unhealthy repetitive cycle that would leave me wanting more. That I was seeking value in those things I owned, rather than in who I was. Trademark pack rat mentality.

It bothered me to the point where I really questioned if I was losing it.

After all, isn’t that the definition of insanity? To do “the same thing over and over and expect a different result?”

I would obtain mass quantities of something, in hope that I would find some sort of satisfaction. This could come in the form of happiness that I’ve “made it” with my collection, or through other people’s validation of my awesomeness — but it all came down to chasing fulfillment.

The turning point came when I felt I had to auction off my entire video game collection to prove to someone — whether it was myself, others, or God — that I was capable of breaking the cycle. While I was in the midst of this pack rat-mentality turmoil, I ended up getting coffee with a trusted mentor of mine: a youth Pastor named Joel.

I don’t remember most of the conversation, but one statement from him stood out to me above all the rest:

That we were all wired a certain way.

Whether it was how we were created, raised in our household, or through association with certain peer groups: we have different interests, proclivities, and personality traits.

It’s what makes us human.

Joel went on to explain how enjoying a hobby was not in itself a sin or a character flaw. It’s when we go overboard that it can be dangerous. Or in other words:

Everything in moderation.

The adage was by no means new information to me. I’ve heard it hundreds of times, as I’m sure you have as well.

But it carried a lot of weight for me in that moment, and it still does to this day.

Where things can go awry is when I give myself over to that passion of collecting — the salve I turn to when I need a quick fix. Or where I continually obsess to the point of thinking of nothing else. It is definitely a mindset that I can adopt subconsciously with any collection if I let it get out of hand.

But on the flipside — The act of collecting things in of itself is not bad.

And the same can be said about many other passions. Whether it’s watching TV, traveling, or herding cats: these are not a crime to undertake. In fact, many of us do these things for fun. But any activity can be a detriment if that enjoyment eventually gives way to undue obsession.

I enjoy collecting things.

And more often than not, I enjoy the activity associated with the collection, such as reading comic books, or playing a retro video game to pass the time. It’s fun for me to build a collection, and sift through the individual objects that comprise said collection.

That is how I was wired.

I realized I was paying way too much attention to the possible dynamics surrounding this passion, rather than on the act of collecting itself. I was worrying about how it affected my mental health, as well as other people’s perception of me.

And don’t get me wrong: these dynamics carry weight.

It is important to be self-aware and know when I need help if I am actively harming myself. I do value other people’s opinions as well — in fact, some of the most important changes I’ve made personally have stemmed from others’ feedback.  

But the underlying issue is that I cared too much about these things.

Sure, not everyone collects hundreds of PEZ dispensers the way that I do, and that’s totally okay. You might think it’s weird, and you wouldn’t be the only one that thinks that. Heck, maybe objectively it is strange.

But I don’t care.

I’m a pack rat, and that’s just a part of who I am.