Whenever I hear parents claim that their children won’t remember if their home is chaotic, a small voice inside me wants to yell, “Oh, yes, they absolutely will.” After all, I grew up with someone who had a hoarding disorder, so our perceptions of messiness differ significantly.
To many, a messy home might mean scattered toys, clothes, or unwashed dishes. But for me, that isn’t what defines a mess. I envision dirty dishes piling up on the coffee table for weeks, clothes soiled and mixed with clean ones, and a kitchen that’s rendered useless due to clutter. A mess embodies a hoarding disorder.
While my mother has never been formally diagnosed, I recognize that she falls within the 5% of individuals who struggle with this challenge. It wasn’t until my twenties, fueled by my fascination with TLC’s Hoarders, that I truly acknowledged the extent of it. Our home wasn’t a biohazard, but the clutter was overwhelming, and its effects on me were profound.
As a child, I didn’t think much of it; to me, it felt normal. I didn’t realize that my relatives had tidy homes while ours was in disarray. A pivotal moment occurred when I naively let my aunt into our house one day. That’s when the shame began to set in.
As I matured, the stress of living in that environment took its toll on me. My mother often insisted that I couldn’t go out with friends until my room was clean. But how could I maintain a clean space when every other room in the house was in disarray? It seemed illogical that my room needed to be spotless while the rest of the home was a disaster zone.
I’d argue, “But your room is messy too!” to which my mother would respond, “I’m the parent, and you’re the child.” This reasoning is even more baffling to me now.
My mother’s hoarding meant our home was off-limits for friends and family. I recall her standing at the door, refusing entry to my grandmother. Once, she asked me, “Promise you won’t do this to me. I want to be able to come inside, no matter how messy it gets.”
As an adult, I’ve never let my home become as disorganized as it was in my childhood. I can’t tolerate the thought of chaos without feeling like I’m losing control. This aspect of my personality, formed through childhood experiences, is something I resent.
I had to teach myself the skills necessary to maintain a clean home, leading to complications in my adult relationships. Friends would often comment on how quickly I would clutter their spaces. It was a wake-up call I didn’t realize I needed. My husband would frequently question why I left things out instead of putting them away. He didn’t understand that I perceived cleaning as a daunting, time-consuming task rather than a simple ongoing process.
Although I’ve learned some of the skills my parents didn’t impart to me, I still find solace in a clean home. Yet, when messes accumulate—especially with little ones running around—I feel a surge of anger. I look at the chaos, the toys everywhere, and I lose it. I can’t move forward until everything is tidy again. Once it’s clean, guilt sets in.
Why do I struggle so much? Why can’t I allow my children to enjoy their childhood messes without feeling overwhelmed? I made a silent vow never to let my kids endure the embarrassment of a cluttered home. I don’t want them to feel they can’t invite friends over or worry about having clean clothes.
However, in my quest to uphold this promise, I’ve forgotten how to let my children be kids. I know I can manage any mess they make, but the scars from my past linger.
You can leave the disorganized home behind, but its impacts follow you.
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In summary, growing up with a parent who has a hoarding disorder leaves lasting impressions that can influence how one manages their own home and relationships. It’s essential to acknowledge these impacts while striving to create a healthier environment for the next generation.