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Chaos. It defines a state of confusion, a mood, and a disorder. This term accurately encapsulates my upbringing — a life steeped in disarray for 18 years.
To clarify, the reasons behind this chaos are many. My mother battled mental illness, while my father passed away when I was just twelve. I also underwent back surgery shortly before turning fifteen, receiving five screws and a rod in my spine. Yet, these circumstances alone don’t explain the chaos of my childhood. The true cause lies in the overwhelming amount of “stuff” — the hoarding.
Ironically, I can’t pinpoint when the hoarding truly began. We were always surrounded by toys and possessions. I owned countless Barbies and we had hundreds of VHS tapes, cassette tapes, books, records, and CDs. Our pantry was stocked with food that could feed an army. As a child, I viewed this as normal. But soon, the clutter became insurmountable. In retrospect, the signs of hoarding are clear.
I remember an overflowing pantry filled with containers of all shapes and sizes, a dining room that was unusable due to heaps of papers — scrap notes, newspapers, and bills. Closets were packed to the brim with clothes we never cleaned. I see the living room corner, piled high with TV Guides, a testament to sitcoms long past. Everywhere you looked, there were boxes. Our home resembled a storage facility, as if we were preparing to leave at any moment. My mother never purchased just one of anything; she bought cereal and Stove Top stuffing in bulk. There were also countless unopened makeup items, and our bathroom was stocked with Clairol hair color kits and Aqua Net hairspray. And yes, I recall critters — bugs in our cereal, worms wriggling on the carpet.
I despised it. I resented my mother’s habits and the mess that surrounded us. The constant chaos stunted both my sister’s and my social growth. We never hosted gatherings or invited friends over; doing so was strictly forbidden, which led to feelings of embarrassment and shame. By high school, I felt dirty and disheveled, trying to conceal myself behind big hair and oversized clothing, a habit I still carry with me.
Perhaps the most surprising effect of my mother’s hoarding is how it still impacts my adult life. Although I left my childhood home at 18, her behavior has left permanent scars. I feel self-conscious, insignificant, and constantly scrutinized. Clutter makes me anxious; piles of toys, books, and clothes set me on edge. I struggle to host guests, spending hours cleaning beforehand to ensure everything appears pristine, as if no one lives there. Making friends remains a challenge, and I often wear a mask — hiding behind it as I once did beneath mountains of boxes.
I recognize that my extreme behaviors are not healthy; indeed, nothing extreme is good. I see a therapist weekly, learning to navigate life, cope with clutter, and manage my interactions. Yet, the struggle continues, and I suspect it always will. Living in the shadow of a hoarder is exhausting.
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Summary
Growing up in a hoarder’s home can create a lasting impact on one’s mental health and social interactions. The chaotic environment, filled with clutter and disarray, leads to feelings of shame and anxiety. As adults, those raised in such settings often grapple with their self-image and relationships, confronting the lingering effects of their upbringing.
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