A Dirty Secret - Why Old Catalogues Scare Me

I knew there was something different about my childhood home. It didn't look like my grandparent's home, or my aunt's home, or my friend's homes. It was only a few years ago that I was finally able to put those differences into perspective, while watching an episode of Oprah. 

As the episode started, they showed video footage of a woman's house. I tried to push down thoughts of similarities between the house being shown on the screen and the house where I grew up. I was doing a pretty good job with my denial until the woman tried to grab a piece of newspaper out of someone's hand while yelling, "You can't throw that away, I'm not done reading it!" These were words I had heard from my father many times.

It was the first time I realized that other people lived the way we had, and there was a name for the condition. I couldn't deny it - my father was a Compulsive Hoarder.

What is it like to live with a hoarder?
When I was little, it wasn't too bad. His stuff was contained in just one room. But as the years passed, it eventually took over two rooms, then three, until it was almost every room in the house except my bedroom.

My mom tried to keep things under control. She would clean while he was at work. Inevitably some of the things she threw away would find their way back into the house from the dumpster, but at least it would be better for a little while.

We didn't have people over to our home very often. I remember the few times that it happened, and there were weeks of cleaning before each occurrence. Most of that cleaning resulted in big fights, as my father did not want to part with his stuff. Many boxes would be hidden away in rooms that guests would not see, or stacked under a table and covered with a tablecloth.

Stacks and stacks of old newspapers and magazines. Everywhere.

The hoarding also took over his car. In the backseat, there was enough room for me to sit by the door (with my legs curled up because the floorboard was full). The rest of the bench seat was full of boxes, papers, computer parts and trash - all the way to the top. We also had a broken car in the driveway; it sat for years, completely full. 

If my dad thought we had thrown out even a single page of newspaper from his stacks, he would go through the garbage can to get it back, saying (yelling), "I am not done reading that." It didn't matter if it was a page of ads that was several months old, he would not part with it.

Things broke, but they were not discarded. 

I had to come up with reasons why I couldn't invite friends to come over, even if I had been to their houses several times. Once, I told a friend that our house was too messy. When she replied, "Oh our house was SUCH a mess when you were here last time. I don't mind." I realized that her definition of 'mess' was a basket of unfolded laundry and a craft project left out overnight on the dining room table. 

My house had a path of clear-ish floor space through the middle of the family room, leading to the couch and to the eating area. Every other inch of floor and tablespace was covered with boxes, piles of newspapers, old computer parts, and other trash.

I tried to explain to her that my house was not the same kind of messy as hers. I think she thought I was making up an excuse not to invite her over. Our friendship faded soon after. That cemented the thought in my mind that our living situation should be kept secret.

After my parents split up, the hoarding went out of control.

When  I was eighteen, I moved into my father's apartment for a few months. Most of my stuff was going into storage, but I had a few boxes with books and other personal belongings that I was going to keep with me. He told me that he cleared out a place for me in the spare bedroom, and I got a couple of friends to help me move. 

I thought (because he told me he had three storage rooms and the apartment had been cleaned up) that when we arrived most of his mess would be hidden away. It wasn't. This was the first time someone outside of my immediate family had seen the full extent of my father's hoarding, and it was embarrassing. I had not been prepared for how out of control it had gotten. Arriving at the apartment, we walked (single-file) through the path in the living room, to get to the spare bedroom.

This is what I saw: The door would only open partway, because there were things leaning against the wall behind it. To my immediate left was a closet that was full of old clothes that hadn't been worn in years, boxes and papers. I think he had cleared out enough room for me to hang up approximately three dresses. Directly in front of me was a single bed with a small path next to it, just big enough for me to fit through. The rest of the room was packed, floor to ceiling, with boxes. We all stared at the wall of boxes in shock. 

One friend, Chris, started grabbing newspapers and bags and taking them to be thrown out. I tried to stop him, explaining that my father would freak out. He assured me that there was no way my father would notice if a few bags of trash left the room.

Chris started opening boxes and found one that had a couple of plastic Wal-Mart bags and trash. Another box contained lots of papers and a Service Merchandise catalogue. He started waving it around, "THIS! He needs this catalogue? Service Merchandise has been out of business for over a year! Why does he have this?"

I had no answer.

I no longer live with a hoarder, but hoarding still affects me. 

I have reoccurring versions of this nightmare: something has happened to my father, and I get a call that I have to go deal with his house. It usually ends with me being stuck behind (or buried underneath) a pile of boxes.

I see tweets and facebook updates announcing that someone is watching Hoarders to get motivated to clean. It does not work like that for me. Just watching a commercial for Hoarders brings on the beginning of a panic attack.

Sometimes I start to freak out if Thomas goes looking for something in a drawer, because I feel like he is touching my stuff. It doesn't matter that the stuff is just a pair of scissors and some batteries - I suddenly have an irrational, emotional attachment to it. The exact kind of reaction that was modeled by my father. When it happens, I try to remember to take deep breathes and be calm. Usually it works, and the panic subsides.

Every few months I make a point to go through drawers and closets and shelves to see what can be donated to goodwill. I don't always trust my instincts as to what should be kept and what should be given away. There are times I probably get rid of things that could have been kept and put to use.

But the biggest effect growing up with compulsive hoarding has on me is this: Sometimes I wonder if there is a hoarder living inside me, just waiting to be unleashed...and that thought terrifies me.

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