Chaos. It’s more than just a condition; it defines a state of being. It’s utter confusion, a total lack of order. While some might associate chaos with scientific phenomena or political upheaval, I can only relate it to my childhood. For 18 years, I was engulfed in chaos.
To clarify, there were many contributing factors to this turmoil. My mother struggled with mental illness, and I lost my father when I was only twelve. I also underwent back surgery shortly before my fifteenth birthday, with five screws and a rod now supporting my spine. But these circumstances aren’t what I associate with my chaotic upbringing. Instead, the overwhelming amount of “stuff” in our home takes center stage.
Ironically, I can’t pinpoint when the hoarding started. We always had an abundance of toys and belongings. I had countless Barbies, and our collection of VHS tapes, cassette tapes, books, records, and CDs was massive. Our pantry was well-stocked with food, enough to sustain an army. As a child, I thought we were “normal.” It was only later that I realized the extent of our situation.
Looking back now, I can see the hoarding clearly. I remember a pantry overflowing with boxes, bottles, and cans—an overwhelming sight. Our dining room was unusable, buried under piles of paper, from scrap notes to bills. Closets were stuffed to the brim with clothes we never cleaned. I recall stacks of TV Guides cluttering corners, a testament to sitcoms long forgotten. Boxes were everywhere; our home resembled a storage unit, as if we were preparing to move at any moment. My mother had a habit of buying in bulk—cereal, makeup, and hair products were always in excess. For instance, she kept multiple compacts of makeup and an alarming number of hair dye kits.
Then there were the critters. Bugs in our cereal, worms wriggling in the carpet.
I hated it. I resented my mother’s compulsive habits and how they shaped our lives. Our home was never a place for guests; inviting friends over was not just frowned upon, it was strictly forbidden. This isolation stunted both my sister’s and my own social growth, leading us to develop significant anxiety issues. The mold and dust aggravating my sister’s chronic lung problems were just part of the backdrop of our lives. I felt shame and embarrassment, which only intensified as I entered high school. I tried to mask my discomfort with oversized clothing and big hair.
Even now, the impact of my upbringing lingers. Although I moved out at 18, my mother’s behaviors have left a permanent mark on my personality. I often feel small, invisible, and overly concerned with how others perceive me. I can’t tolerate clutter; piles of belongings trigger anxiety and stress. Preparing for guests involves hours of cleaning—surfaces must be spotless. Forming friendships is a challenge, and I often find myself wearing a mask, hiding behind it just as I once hid behind stacks of boxes.
I recognize that my extreme reactions aren’t healthy. I’m aware that living in the shadow of hoarding has been exhausting. I see a therapist weekly to help me navigate these challenges, working on coping with clutter and social interactions. However, I know this is a lifelong journey, as the legacy of a hoarder is a heavy burden to bear.
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