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Disorder. It’s a state of being, a pervasive mood, and, by definition, a condition. Disorder embodies confusion and profound disarray. While many might use the term in relation to chaotic events or scientific phenomena, it’s the only way I can truly capture my childhood experience. I spent 18 years immersed in chaos.
To clarify, there are many reasons behind this chaos. My mother struggled with mental health issues, my father passed away when I was just twelve, and I underwent back surgery shortly before turning fifteen. But these circumstances aren’t the root cause of my chaotic upbringing. The primary culprit? An overwhelming accumulation of “stuff.”
Oddly enough, I can’t pinpoint exactly when the hoarding began. Our home was always filled with toys and belongings—an abundance of things. I had countless Barbies, and we owned hundreds of VHS tapes, cassette tapes, books, records, 8-tracks, and CDs. Our pantry was never lacking in food; we had enough supplies to feed an army. Back then, I thought this was just how life was. But as time went on, the clutter became unmanageable. In retrospect, my childhood is marked by this overwhelming mess.
The signs of hoarding are glaringly obvious now. I remember an overflowing pantry crammed with boxes, bottles, small unlabeled containers, and an excessive number of cans. Our dining room was unusable, buried under heaps of papers—scrap paper, newspapers, sticky notes, and bills. Closets were inaccessible due to mountains of clothes we never cleaned. I can picture stacks of TV Guides piled high in the corner of the living room, a monument to forgotten sitcoms. The very structure of our home resembled a storage facility, as if we were perpetually preparing to move.
My mother had a penchant for buying in bulk; never just one of anything. Cereal was purchased in massive quantities, and she hoarded makeup like it was going out of style, often having several unopened compacts of blush, eyeshadow, and foundation at hand. The bathroom was filled with an excessive number of hair color kits and cans of hairspray. I also remember the critters—bugs in the cereal and worms crawling in the carpet.
I despised it all. I resented my mother’s peculiar habits and the chaos that enveloped our lives. We never had visitors or hosted family gatherings. Inviting friends was not just discouraged; it was completely off-limits. This isolation stunted both my sister’s and my own social development, leading us to develop significant anxiety issues. The dust and grime in our home exacerbated my sister’s lung condition, while I felt ashamed of our living situation. By the time I reached high school, the mess felt like an extension of myself; I adopted baggy clothes and big hair as a shield.
The most surprising consequence of my mother’s hoarding, however, is how it continues to shape my adult life. Although I moved out as soon as I turned 18, her actions have left a lasting imprint on my behavior. I often feel self-conscious, small, and unimportant. I constantly worry about how others perceive me, feeling scrutinized in every social situation. I have become a neat freak, unable to tolerate clutter. Piles of toys, books, and unfolded clothes trigger feelings of anxiety, anger, and depression. I struggle to welcome guests into my home, spending hours cleaning to ensure everything is spotless, making my space resemble a showroom. Forming friendships remains a challenge, and I often wear a mask to hide my true self, just as I once hid behind piles of boxes.
I know my extreme reactions are not healthy. I’m aware that anything described as “extreme” poses issues, and it’s something I am actively working on. I attend therapy weekly to learn how to cope with clutter, navigate social interactions, and manage my life. Yet, the struggle persists, and I suspect it always will. Living in the shadow of a hoarder is a daunting task, and managing the legacy of hoarding is exhausting.
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Summary
Growing up in a home plagued by hoarding can lead to lasting emotional and psychological effects. The chaos of clutter, a lack of socialization, and the feelings of shame and anxiety often follow individuals well into adulthood. Although therapy can provide some relief, the impact of such a childhood can be profound and enduring.