I’ve always wanted to be famous — not Kim Kardashian level, but famous enough that my name would be, if not in lights, at least in print. While others scoff at the idea of reality TV, I’ve always been drawn to its ability to make even the most ordinary people into household names. But when my own chance for reality infamy arrived, I had to ask myself some hard questions: Was I willing to expose my most embarrassing mental health issue in the name of fame? And more importantly, would doing so help me conquer it once and for all?

After I came out as a hoarder in a 2011 essay I was contacted by a producer for TLC’s "Hoarding: Buried Alive." She described the show as a kinder, gentler "Hoarders" (AMC’s reality show on the same topic), designed to help those it profiled finally get their homes into shape. She assured me that, despite the ominous-sounding title, they weren't looking to exploit me. "We offer professional therapeutic help, the assistance of a professional organizer who has experience working with people who hoard, as well as monetary compensation to people who participate. You will not be made to completely empty your apartment but rather we'll help you work at your own pace," she wrote via email.



They were going to pay me $3,000 and the cost of a professional organizer (a $6,000 value) to lay my two-bedroom Williamsburg, Brooklyn apartment bare, exposing every stray book, magazine, article of clothing, memento, and dirty dish, down to the last bits of dust and filth. They even offered to fly my mom in to get her on-camera take.

The producer sent me a DVD of the show, but I could never bring myself to watch it, too afraid that what I saw would hit so close to home I'd simply dissolve into tears. All I knew of hoarding TV shows came from the cheerful words of well-meaning friends who often told me, "But you're not as bad as those people on TV." Sometimes they'd mention mice or cats. I knew in my heart that they had put too much faith in me. I was a real hoarder, I'd just been able to mask it by putting on cute dresses and not letting a soul enter my home for five years. After all, "hoard" comes from the word for "hidden treasure," which is how I’d treated my collective "stuff"; as if its value were simply waiting to be unearthed.

And so the producer’s offer was utterly seductive. I was over faking it, pretending that I could handle the daily search for basic items like keys or shoes. I was tired of tripping over piles of belongings every time I moved, or struggling to open or close my door because of everything blocking it. I needed to stop living in fear that a neighbor would get a glimpse into my home and report me.

'That's all anyone will remember. Is that the way you want to be known to millions of people?'

I started to put the wheels in motion and called my personal organizer, who had been painstakingly patient with me, even when I relapsed. Part of me was mortified that I was contemplating hiring her again, after I’d upended all her good work in a matter of months. But she was willing to do it, and I desperately hoped the second time was the charm. Finding a supportive, nonjudgmental organizer was a blessing. A former organizer, upon seeing my towering belongings, had recoiled in horror and suggested I seek professional help; instead, I’d sobbed as soon as the door closed behind her.

Despite the anxiety that accompanied my decision to reveal my true self to the world, a sense of excitement began to build. I’d be getting a free life makeover — making public amends for my worst flaw — and I’d get paid for it as well.

But according to my friends and therapist, my loss (of years of stuff) was TLC’s gain. The network was a business, first and foremost, and no television show would offer something for nothing. Everyone whose opinion I consulted warned me that I’d be sacrificing my professional reputation. Goodbye, respected writer, hello hoarder. "That's all anyone will remember. Is that the way you want to be known to millions of people?" my therapist asked.

I disagreed with their assessments. I was a smart, grown, professional woman, and I knew exactly why the show wanted me. I was a New York apartment dweller with a two-bedroom place sans closets, instead of a rural or suburban homeowner of a sprawling estate with endless rooms to fill to the ceiling. A good deal of my hoarding was dedicated to the sex toys and other racy items I was often sent or had to purchase for my work writing about sex. I didn’t know where every last vibrator I’d ever been sent to review had ended up, and I’m certain that’s what the producers at TLC were counting on.

It would be funny, right? Imagine an avalanche of hoarded dildos spilling from a closet; they could replay it over and over, even run it in slo-mo. I wanted to prove that I could laugh at myself (and even cry a little), while also making a commitment to genuine change. The image of myself I’d present to the world was a person who could grow through tough love. I didn’t care how low I had to go to get there. I wanted to show that seemingly "regular" people are hoarders, too, not just those we easily dismiss as freaks, while watching their downfall as entertainment. TLC would have their agenda, but I’d have mine as well. I wanted to show that hoarding is a mental health issue every bit as legitimate as depression. Our brains simply works differently than other people's.

Ultimately, I declined the offer to appear on "Hoarders: Buried Alive."

While exchanging over a dozen emails with the producer, I agonized over my decision. Once we started talking specifics (dates were set, and I’d even started reaching out to friends who might appear on the show with me), my fears started bubbling up again. It’s one thing to feel secure about what’s commonly thought of as shameful to yourself; it’s another to actually showcase that "flaw" to the world. But for as much as time as I’d spent analyzing my anxieties, I ended up saying no for a far more mundane reason than either I, my friends, or therapist had come up with: I was living in an apartment with no written lease on a month-to-month basis, and I was afraid of asking my landlord to sign a TV release form.

The threat of eviction already hovered over me any time my landlord needed to do any kind of routine inspection, or even during the monthly exterminator visit. I simply stopped using my refrigerator when it broke rather than risk anyone seeing the true state of my apartment while replacing it. The show’s producer was kind, saying they’d be open to having me on at a later date, but I knew in my heart the opportunity had passed.

Two years later I "fixed" my hoarding problem in a similarly dramatic fashion, but in private. In exchange for $700, two men from a trash removal service came to my home armed with face masks, rubber gloves, garbage cans, and stamina. Over the course of four hours, they systematically discarded the vast sea of stuff I’d been trying to purge for years. They worked fast, in a ruthless, devoted way I simply wasn't capable of, occasionally handing me a stray item they’d rescued, like my Social Security card. I gladly let one of them keep a coffee table book of classic Playboy covers. One of the last items to go was that DVD of "Hoarding: Buried Alive," off to perhaps a fitting locale: the local dump.

Our brains simply works differently than other people's.

While there’s still a part of me that wishes I’d said yes to my reality TV moment, I know that if I’d let the cameras roll, I’d have surrendered control of the narrative of my hoarding. Saying no gave me the opportunity to work on myself before jumping in front of the camera. Even after the professional trash removers had done their job, my personal work around hoarding has continued for years. I’ve spilled many tears as I asked myself whether holding on to my "treasures" was actually worth the emotional toll. I’ve spent hours deciding whether to cling to a beloved dress that no longer fits but holds sentimental value. For the most part, I’ve learned to err on the side of letting go, but getting to that point is still a struggle. These decisions have been amplified after moving in five years ago with my boyfriend, a minimalist who actively looks for things he owns to throw out on a regular basis in order to keep a cleaner home. I’m not perfect, but at least I now know where almost everything I own lives.

Even all these years later, I have moments where I wonder how I would have been portrayed if I’d said yes to the show, but I’m OK with that remaining a mystery. I still have reality TV dreams, but I’m glad I let this one go.

Rachel Kramer Bussel (rachelkramerbussel.com) is the editor of the Best Women's Erotica of the Year series and teaches erotic writing classes in person and online. Follow her @raquelita on Twitter.

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