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Whenever I hear parents claim that their children won’t remember a messy home, a part of me wants to shout, “Oh, trust me, they will!” Having lived with someone who struggled with hoarding disorder, my perception of messiness is vastly different from theirs.
For many, a messy home might mean scattered toys, laundry piles, or a few dirty dishes. But for me, a mess is defined by dirty cups accumulating on the table for weeks, no clean clothes in sight, and a kitchen overtaken by clutter. To me, a mess is a hoarding disorder.
Though my mother has never been officially diagnosed, I can see that she is among the 5% of people dealing with this condition. It wasn’t until my 20s, while watching TLC’s Hoarders, that I began to recognize the signs. Our home wasn’t filled with trash or extreme filth, but my mother’s struggle to maintain cleanliness profoundly affected my childhood.
As a child, I didn’t think much of it. I simply accepted that our home was different from my relatives’ tidy spaces. It wasn’t until I let my aunt into our home one day that I began to understand the shame I was supposed to feel.
As I grew older, the mess began to weigh heavily on me. I couldn’t articulate it then, but I felt the effects. My mom would insist I clean my room before going out, yet I had never learned how to keep it tidy when the rest of the house was a chaos. The irony of being asked to clean a space that was manageable when the rest of the house was not was lost on me.
My mother’s hoarding disorder meant I couldn’t invite friends over, and even family visits were fraught with anxiety. I recall my mom expressing her fear that I would replicate her struggles, saying, “Promise me you’ll never do that. I want to come inside, no matter how messy it is.”
As an adult, I’ve made sure my home is never as messy as my childhood environment. The fear of chaos drives me, and it is a part of my character that I struggle to accept. I lacked the skills to maintain a clean home, and this has impacted my relationships. My friends would point out how quickly I could mess up their spaces, and my partner often questioned why I left things lying around. The concept of tidying up felt foreign to me; cleaning felt monumental, not a daily task.
Over time, I’ve learned some cleaning skills and have experienced the satisfaction of a tidy home. However, as a parent, I grapple with anger when the mess accumulates. I see toys everywhere, dirty dishes, and crumbs beneath my feet, and I can feel my temper rising. Guilt soon follows: Why can’t I let my kids enjoy their mess? Why does it bother me so much?
I’ve vowed to ensure my children grow up without the embarrassment of a cluttered home. Yet, in this commitment, I find it hard to let them be kids. I know I can manage any mess they create, but the shadows of my past linger. The effects of living with a hoarder can follow you long after you leave that environment behind.
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Summary
This article explores the profound effects of living with a parent who has hoarding disorder, describing the emotional struggles and challenges faced throughout childhood and into adulthood. The author reflects on the impacts of their upbringing and their commitment to providing a clean, welcoming environment for their children while grappling with the remnants of their past experiences.