Hoarding: A Family Affair

When I was a little kid, our home was pretty normal. We had the usual amount of clutter, toys, books, and miscellaneous stuff, but it was nothing that couldn’t be shoved into a closet when we needed to tidy up for company. “Hoarding” wasn’t a word in my vocabulary.

As I got older, our home began to morph. The “usual amount” of stuff turned into much more. The hoard of objects took on a living quality that became suffocating. Soon there were too many items to shove into a closet. Instead, the piles had to be covered with afghans and throws, the hoarder’s version of an invisibility cloak.

As a result, the number and frequency of visitors who were allowed to enter our house died down.

I instinctively knew that secrecy and distrust were important survival skills, because it was risky to let many people know about the real state of our home. 

We’d risk embarrassment, judgment, and the chance that someone might gossip to the wrong person and get us in trouble somehow.

I knew our place wasn’t normal anymore, because I could compare it to my friends’ clean homes. Homes with floors that you could see. Furniture that you didn’t have to share with a pile of newspapers. Tables at which you could sit and have a meal together.

I was both envious and grateful. I was jealous of the seemingly simple things that they took for granted, and I was chock-full o’ gratitude that they let me hang out at their homes and share their happy domestic experiences.

Not that my family didn’t love each other or have fun together. We had a blast. We laughed a lot, traveled a lot, and learned a lot. My parents were brilliant people who loved and provided for us. I admire them for being caring, strong people who always set an example of helping others in need.

That house, though.

Escaping the Hoard

Looking back, I can understand why The Container Store was my favorite place. Because I was desperate for anything to bring order to our home. I also understand why the bathroom was my favorite hideout. Because it had a locking door, it was small enough for me to keep clean, and I could escape my uncontrollable surroundings with the help of a good book and a hot bath.

It was glorious when I earned enough money to rent my own place. Sure, I took with me my own bad habits and hoarding tendencies, such as impulse buying, making piles of papers rather than filing them away neatly, and having lots of knickknacks and tchotchkes and clothes and miscellaneous shiznit.

Even so, it was the first time I was truly in control of my own possessions.

That’s a wonderful feeling. Most people take it for granted that they can decide when to get rid of their own things. They don’t have to worry about someone pulling it out of the donation pile or the trash, claiming it, and not letting it leave the house.

Returning to the Hoard 

Once I’d grown up and moved away, the hoard was an annoyance on visits home but otherwise wasn’t something I had to live with day to day. However, I started spending a lot more time in the house when our mom got sick and was in the hospital for weeks at a time. Our dad had passed away years before, and the mess had continued to worsen.

The hoard was something I couldn’t ignore any more. 

Mom wasn’t willing to move out of the house, so I had to quickly learn and implement harm reduction techniques. If I couldn’t convince her to move to a clean place, I had to do the next best thing and make it a bit safer for her to stay in her home. She was able to spend the rest of her days there, thanks to her amazing caregivers and friends helping her out when I couldn’t be there with her.

What I Learned Along the Way  

After Mom died, we had to clean out her house so it could be sold. It was a huge, difficult undertaking, especially at a time when you’re grieving so much that it’s hard to breathe. Terrifying though it was, the experience taught me a great deal.

During the last several years, I’ve researched a lot and learned quite a few practical skills.

I’ve learned how to clean items, how to safely dispose of medications and chemicals, how to organize and store objects, and how to manage and close out an estate, among other things.

Stupendous people helped me with this, the biggest challenge I’ve ever faced. My husband, bless his everlovin’ heart, was instrumental in figuring out what cleaning tools and archival supplies we needed to get and how we should use them. Without his crucial help and the assistance of my brother during a tag-team marathon clean-up session, I’d still be digging through the stuff in that house.

Other wonderful folks helped at various points in the process, too. I’ll write in a future post about how you can assemble your own team.

People Are People, Things Are Things 

As a result of this situation, I’ve also gained a lot of insight into hoarding disorder and mental health. I have much more empathy for my parents and their struggles.  I’ve come to terms with my own relationship to objects and learned how to improve it.

I’m not a minimalist by any means, though everything I do have has a place, purpose, or reason for being in my home, even if that reason is because it sparkles and makes me happy.

I still have plenty of stuff, but I can recognize it as just that: stuff.

Not memories. Not historical archives. Not mystical talismans because they were once touched by some long-dead relative who may not have cared that much about the darn thing in the first place.

Most certainly not a replacement for relationships with loved ones or for positive experiences.

Why I’m Writing This Blog 

I’ve lived in and cleaned out a couple of hoarded homes now, both my childhood home and our parents’ smaller vacation place. I’ve struggled with my own hoarding instincts and scarcity mentality and can recognize them for what they are rather than being pushed around by them anymore.

And I know what a huge difference it makes to have someone care enough to see the person amidst all of the stuff.

I can be that someone for you.

Someone who knows firsthand how it is, who cares about you, and who has compassion for you regardless of whether you’re the hoarder, a loved one who suffers with them, or simply a person who feels disorganized or not totally in control of your possessions.

Whatever your reason, I’m so glad you found your way here. I may be a total stranger to you, but your ordeal isn’t totally strange to me.

To be honest, it’s pretty frightening to talk about something that’s been such a huge, hairy, hoard-y secret for all these decades. It’s worth it, though, because too many people suffer in silence and think they’re all alone.

Why You’re Reading This Blog

This blog will give you the organizational, hoarding, personal care, and cleaning tips, resources, and insights that I wish someone had shared with me.

I’ll be honest with you about my own mistakes and misadventures. About the times where you shouldn’t try this at home and when it’s totally okay to call in the cavalry or even preferable for you to bail out altogether.

I won’t judge, despite occasionally griping about what I dealt with because, hey, I’m only human and there have been some intensely rough parts to all of this.

Maybe we’ll have a laugh or two together, because there’s plenty of funny to be found even in the midst of pathos and Pop-Tarts wrappers.

As Stephen Hawking said, “Life would be tragic if it weren’t funny.” And he was one smart dude.

Find whatever info you need, use it how you will, and just be sure to regift it or recycle the packaging when you’re done. 🙂

Hope and joy,

Rachel