I’ve always been a bit messy. Like when I was a teenager, I definitely had one of those rooms that would give any neatnik heart palpitations. I don’t remember leaving my clothes on the floor, but when I look back at pictures I see they are. Which would make sense. I don’t remember having a hamper to toss them into like I do now.
There was a hamper right across from my room in our laundry closet, though. But I don’t remember ever putting them there. However, I remember knowing to look there for clean clothes there if I needed them.
And none of that really matters except I’ve been reflecting on whether I’ve always been like how I am or not. Both my parents were pack rats and I definitely have issues with “collecting” stuff. So, yeah, I’ve inherited that gene.
But in the last 10 years or so, my messiness has gotten worse.
I mean, I clean. I do clean the house, but there are a couple of areas of the house that just have piles of stuff on the floor that have been there for years now.
The picture at the top of this post is just from the last couple of months. In order to paint my office, I had to “shift” everything out of there elsewhere. The front room was where it landed.
It’s not quite as bad as the extreme examples of hoarding you see on TV —yet. But if I’m honest with myself, I can see how it wouldn’t take much more for me to get there.
All Joking Aside
I’m the first one to joke about my near-hoarding ways. Probably because actual hoarders don’t admit they have a problem, right? If I joke about it and people see I’m aware of it, I can convince them I just haven’t gotten around to cleaning that spot up yet. I can fool them that I’m not actually on the brink of becoming a full-blown hoarder.
But I know the truth and I’ve known it for a while.
In order to tackle those hot spots, I have to confront my past, pieces of which are hidden in that mess. Painful parts that cause me immense grief, and remind me of traumas I’m still trying to reconcile because I still haven’t fully accepted they actually happened.
Avoidance
Basically, I’m a typical human. That is to say, I’m pain-adverse. We avoid what doesn’t feel good. I’ve been trying to avoid reliving the heartbreak, so…I let the mess sit.
And accumulate. Anything I don’t want to face? Toss it on the pile.
I know it’s not healthy. If I wasn’t so lazy and if my brief encounter with therapy hadn’t been so unpleasant, I might seek professional help.
As it is, I can’t bring myself to do that either because ugh. The last counseling session I had proved so intense both the counselor and myself went through all the boxes of tissues in his office in our hour together.
Thanks but no thanks. I was only there because at that time my mom’s impending death had resurrected all the hurt. A social worker suggested therapy would help. If that was the process to get help, I’d just much rather re-bury my issues again, thank you very much. Because once she died, who else would be there to bring them back to haunt me again?
Fresh Eyes
The other night I was watching something about biowaste clean-up companies that have been called to a death scene only to find it’s a hoarder’s house. They talked about the extra challenge and safety concerns such houses pose.
Dr. Judy Ho was among those interviewed for the segment to share some insights. One thing she said that immediately caught my attention was that hoarders don’t really see what others do. They are so used to the mess, they can’t see the issue with fresh eyes.
Uh oh. I know I do that only because we recently had some remodeling done that forced me to clean up. (Like I did with the painting project.) When I saw the uncluttered, cleaned out areas, I could see how bad it had been…and how bad my danger areas really are.
Then Dr. Ho went on to share a few reasons why hoarders hoard. It’s not just one thing. It can be anything from a chemical imbalance to stress to unresolved trauma.
Family Trauma
I don’t know about the chemical imbalance, but stress and trauma…yes. The first pile formed in 2008, shortly after I moved my mother in to care for her. I just didn’t have the time or energy to clean. She had dementia and was dying and I was on full-time caretaking duty.
Then after she died, I didn’t have the strength. Not from grief. Well, partly. But it’s no secret I hated my mom, something I hadn’t been able to admit until that particularly painful counseling session. I had always been so focused on the fact she neither liked nor loved me that I never asked myself how I felt about her until that day.
But I didn’t have energy or time to deal with any of that because five months later I was in the hospital receiving my own cancer diagnosis. If I wanted to live, I had to shove aside all the pain caring for my mom had caused. Or else she was quite literally going to be the death of me.
And then there was my sister’s betrayal. On top of having my mother’s disdain for me confirmed in her dying months, I also had to grapple with the loss of my sister too. She was still alive, but as far as I was concerned she was dead. She had manipulated me into caring for our dying mother knowing full well how the will had been laid out. So she had her cake and got to eat it too.
The big sister who I’d loved and admired didn’t have my back when times got rough. She sold me out because she was the one who had helped my mom craft her will. The big sister who prided herself on her independence and had sworn off marriage had ended up using her single status to justify my mother bequeathing the majority of her estate to her because I had Wayne.
And then as our mother was dying, where was she? As far away from handling any of it as she could be. Even when she had vacation time, what did she do? Took it to “get away from everything” rather than coming out to give me a break. (She lived in a whole other state so it wasn’t like she was any help after work or on weekends either.)
And then there was my dad, who could only make excuses for my sister. And why not? That’s what my family had done for her and her outrageously selfish behavior her whole life.
The kicker was, my sister hadn’t spoken to him in 20 years. Bless him, he kept trying to repair the rift. I love my dad for that, but it hurt me to hear him gripe that he’d sent her money (that he didn’t have to spare) for Christmas and birthdays and be upset she didn’t say thank you, when I (a) was lucky if he remembered to send me a card, (b) it was ever on time (which they never were; three weeks late was the norm), and (b) he never sent me money.
So in the end I had no respect for my dad either. I saw him as weak. Loving, yes, but spineless.
Repressed Resentments
Except, the person I resented most of all was myself.
I lashed out at my sister and told her what I thought of her and her plans once I discovered them, and I would request that my dad not confide in me over his grief about my sister. But I never specifically told him how much it hurt me to see how his treatment of her and me was so different. (Had been my whole life. The card and money thing was just one small slice of all that.)
Worst of all, I never confronted my mom. I knew she resented me for being born later in her life. She never made a secret of that. But I tried to be a good daughter. I tried to be as agreeable and pleasant as possible. I got straight As, never did drugs or got into any other mischief.
Then when she couldn’t care for herself I tried to care for her. Granted, it was one last-ditch effort to show her I was a good person, that I was worthy of her love, but I never came straight out and asked her why none of it was ever good enough? Why did she hate me so much?
It doesn’t matter now. It’s taken years for me to get to the point of not only saying that but believing it.
Which is why after hearing Dr. Ho talk about the mental state of hoarders the other day, I think I finally understand I truly am on the brink. If I want to move forward, I have to face the past.
But can I do it?
Nothing Ventured
Yesterday I reframed the question, “What will you make room for if you purge all of that crap you’ve collected, not only in your hot spots but in your soul? What space will you free up to welcome in other, better things that want to find their way in, but can’t right now? Or maybe you’ll just enjoy having all that room. You don’t have to replace it with anything. The point is to feel better and to free yourself. What would that feel like? Don’t you want to know?”
Yes.