It has taken a lot of courage to admit that I have a problem. My life has become unmanageable and I am powerless to my addiction. My "hobby" of sorts is not the most expensive, but it sure takes up a lot of space.
My addiction has progressed through birthdays, Christmases, and souvenirs, to the astounding number it is today: 73. I have collected 73 piggy banks from 8 different countries ranging in size and color.
I did not always have difficulty saying no to each one I saw. It all started when I was seven. I received a big white piggy bank with Princess scrawled on the side. I instantly fell in love with it. I took it everywhere, despite its awkward size and shape. Not only did I love it because it was a pig, but also because of the meaning behind it. The permanence that surrounds a ceramic pig-shaped bank is a big deal for a child. Unfortunately, not everyone was happy with the gift. My older sister decided that the 42 cents inside my piggy bank were worth smashing it with a hammer. I realized that consequences accompany careless actions.
Vowing to avenge my first piggy bank, I started to collect them. Whenever I saw a new one, I couldn't help but buy it. It didn't matter if I had a reason. From flea markets to little Swiss souvenir shops, I just had to have them. Once my extended family found out about it, the piggy banks started coming on birthdays and holidays. It's safe to say that that did not help my growing obsession.
Everyone told me that I used them incorrectly. The general use of piggy banks is to store money in a quaint, decorative manner. I never understood why I would put my pig in jeopardy like that. After recovering from my first broken bank, I never wanted to relive that trauma. To this day, I have the irrational fear that if my house got robbed, I would come home to find all of them destroyed because the robber did not have enough sense to shake them and realize that there was nothing in them. But to appease my family, I put a quarter in each one, a christening of sorts.
Call it an obsession, a fixation, an addiction, or a disorder. It does not matter. It will not change my love for piggy banks. Each one has meaning (which is frighteningly familiar to what hoarders say).
Looking back, I probably should have chosen something that takes up less space and is less likely to be broken. Although I cannot bring them with me everywhere and show them off, each ceramic or metal pig has a place in my heart. They symbolize how thought-to-be constants can be broken and how fragile our perception of permanence truly is.
