I don't know a whole lot about dealing with a drug addict - fortunately I've never had to. But I have a feeling that you don't pat their hand and say "there, there...I know this is hard. I won't take your drugs away from you; you just slowly get rid of them on your own time when you're ready." A hoarder is addicted to stuff. Why is it not ok to take it away from them, even slowly? Let them experience a little withdrawal. Why is the "treatment" for this addiction so catered to the addict's "feelings"?
I've been reading a lot of other blogs by "COH" (Children of Hoarders), and I read a really powerful entry last night on http://www.hoardersson.com. It was an entry about COH "talking points," or points about how a child of a hoarder is affected by their parent's disorder, as a child, and long into adulthood.
He writes: "As a final thought, children of hoarders sometimes are portrayed as being inappropriately angry, impatient, or otherwise unsupported of family members who are undergoing treatment for hoarding. Professionals, in particular, are reminded that many children of hoarders have suffered a lifetime of neglect and abuse and are desperately in need of support. In such cases, expecting COHs to be patient and respectful participants in the treatment of hoarders may be likened to expecting victims of sexual abuse to help their abusers to get treatment, without acknowledging the damage done to the victims, much less getting treatment and support for them."
I've read so much about forming a caring support team for your hoarding loved one. In Digging Out they even have a sample scenario where a hoarder's landlord patiently joins a "harm reduction team" aimed at making his tenant's crowded home easier for her to maneuver...YEAH RIGHT! Any landlord who knew their tenant was a hoarder would evict them - as they rightly should. All the info out there is about forgiving your hoarding loved one for past harm and gently doing things on their terms to make their life easier. Reading the quote above was a breath of fresh air. It was such a relief to read about hoarding "treatment" from the point of view of a COH.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Happier Times
We had a rough morning. Mom's still mad that I cleaned up in the kitchen. She's still mad that I am interfering with her TV viewing because I want to sleep. I think she proposed to Jack that she box everything in the bedroom up, probably asking him to buy her more large plastic bins, and put it downstairs so I could have a place to sleep, and she could watch TV late into the night. She pulled him outside for this conversation, but bits of it came up in the ensuing fight the three of us got into.
I lost my patience. I kept the yelling and swearing to a minimum, but I said some mean things. Except, they weren't mean so much as true. She said she hated how Jack and I "gang up on her." Jack, ever diplomatic tried to reassure her that he and I were not a team. "Fuck that," I responded. "We are a team. We want the same thing - a comfortable and presentable house for everyone that lives here. Maybe you won't stand up for yourself, but I will. It's your house and I hate seeing her fill it with shit." Ok, maybe it wasn't necessary for me to stand up for a grown man; he can stand up for himself if he wants.
She left to tutor. Later in the day I pulled down the photo albums of my childhood. All these photos were in a box at the old house. Many years after we had abandoned it, I got the idea to dig them out and put them in an album for my mom for mother's day. I was in college then. I took the bus back to our old house and snuck in the bathroom window. I was shocked by what I saw. The entire bathroom floor had sunken in in our absence. There were mushrooms growing around the toilet. I walked around the little paths of the house for a few minutes, freshly overwhelmed by it all. I saw mouse droppings, but thankfully didn't encounter a mouse (there were no mice when we lived there - lots of bugs, but nothing bigger). I found the box of photos and got out as quick as I could. I took the risk of leaving through the front door and being spotted because I was scared to cross the bathroom floor again.
Looking at those photos now is such a mix of emotions. There's a relatively clean house in the background of them, but I never remember it looking like this. Apart from a collection of school portraits, the photos end when I'm three or four. There's family in our living room for birthdays, laughing and eating cake. There's me taking a bath in the kitchen sink, and you can see the counters. There's my mom and I, happy and smiling, like any other parent and child. Where did it all go so wrong? Why couldn't anybody stop it before it got out of control? Why can't we get back there? She was clearly happier then; why won't she even try to get back there?
I lost my patience. I kept the yelling and swearing to a minimum, but I said some mean things. Except, they weren't mean so much as true. She said she hated how Jack and I "gang up on her." Jack, ever diplomatic tried to reassure her that he and I were not a team. "Fuck that," I responded. "We are a team. We want the same thing - a comfortable and presentable house for everyone that lives here. Maybe you won't stand up for yourself, but I will. It's your house and I hate seeing her fill it with shit." Ok, maybe it wasn't necessary for me to stand up for a grown man; he can stand up for himself if he wants.
She left to tutor. Later in the day I pulled down the photo albums of my childhood. All these photos were in a box at the old house. Many years after we had abandoned it, I got the idea to dig them out and put them in an album for my mom for mother's day. I was in college then. I took the bus back to our old house and snuck in the bathroom window. I was shocked by what I saw. The entire bathroom floor had sunken in in our absence. There were mushrooms growing around the toilet. I walked around the little paths of the house for a few minutes, freshly overwhelmed by it all. I saw mouse droppings, but thankfully didn't encounter a mouse (there were no mice when we lived there - lots of bugs, but nothing bigger). I found the box of photos and got out as quick as I could. I took the risk of leaving through the front door and being spotted because I was scared to cross the bathroom floor again.
Looking at those photos now is such a mix of emotions. There's a relatively clean house in the background of them, but I never remember it looking like this. Apart from a collection of school portraits, the photos end when I'm three or four. There's family in our living room for birthdays, laughing and eating cake. There's me taking a bath in the kitchen sink, and you can see the counters. There's my mom and I, happy and smiling, like any other parent and child. Where did it all go so wrong? Why couldn't anybody stop it before it got out of control? Why can't we get back there? She was clearly happier then; why won't she even try to get back there?
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Creativity
In Digging Out, the hoarding help manual I've mentioned before, the authors point out that hoarders are often very creative people. They ask you to do an exercise, in which you envision all the things you could do with a bottle cap. The average person can think of one or two things (including just throwing the damn thing away). The average hoarder can think of ten to fifteen things to do with a bottle cap, which makes it harder for them to throw it away.
I guess we're supposed to be impressed by that. But, you know what, if Picasso had just looked at canvases and thought amazing pictures in his mind, but never actually painted them, he wouldn't be an artist. Nobody would know who he was; nobody would care.
I cleaned the kitchen, unauthorized, the other day. My mom was out of the house, and I just couldn't take sitting there, looking at the mess and doing nothing. I literally cleaned - moved the table and swept up an inch of dust and rotting flower petals, etc - and I did some reorganizing. I was careful to throw so very little away. For example, she had a shelf full of mostly empty sticky honey jars with bits of unusable crystallized remains. I cleaned out all of them, wiped down the sticky shelf, and then saved one of each style of honey jar, and recycled the rest. Nobody needs nine almost empty honey jars. Nobody needs five cleaned honey jars either, but I left them on the shelf for her to do nothing with for ten more years.
When she returned she saw that I had cleaned and went out to the recycling bin and started digging. She pulled out an old take out container and one jar. I was secretly glad she didn't pull out more, but I was still dismayed that she pulled out anything. "This is not trash!" she proclaimed, holding up the take out container. "You have a whole cabinet of actual tupperware, I didn't think you'd miss a take out container," I countered. The take out container in question has a scalloped bowl. "This would make a great mold - for sand, or jello, or even plaster or something."
True, maybe it would. But she won't do any of those things with it. She'll tuck it back where it was (maybe, eventually, if I'm lucky - right now it's sitting on a ledge where she left it) and eventually probably forget it's even there. I understand, and even respect, creative re-use. I can actually think of a lot of things to do with a bottle cap. Back in college, when I drank more, I would save the cool ones. I made thumb tack sets and jewelry out of them and gave them away to friends. I bought some epoxy and pins and made buttons out of them. My art school roommate covered a whole coat with them. My aunt - whom my mom can't stand that I have a relationship with...another story for another time - flattens them and makes awesome tambourines. I even saved up a whole bunch with the intention of covering a table top with bottle caps and resin. But I never got around to that project, and so, after about a year of hanging on to a box full of bottle caps, I recycled them. Because being an actually creative person means being able to let go of old ideas and run with fresh inspiration sometimes.
I guess we're supposed to be impressed by that. But, you know what, if Picasso had just looked at canvases and thought amazing pictures in his mind, but never actually painted them, he wouldn't be an artist. Nobody would know who he was; nobody would care.
I cleaned the kitchen, unauthorized, the other day. My mom was out of the house, and I just couldn't take sitting there, looking at the mess and doing nothing. I literally cleaned - moved the table and swept up an inch of dust and rotting flower petals, etc - and I did some reorganizing. I was careful to throw so very little away. For example, she had a shelf full of mostly empty sticky honey jars with bits of unusable crystallized remains. I cleaned out all of them, wiped down the sticky shelf, and then saved one of each style of honey jar, and recycled the rest. Nobody needs nine almost empty honey jars. Nobody needs five cleaned honey jars either, but I left them on the shelf for her to do nothing with for ten more years.
When she returned she saw that I had cleaned and went out to the recycling bin and started digging. She pulled out an old take out container and one jar. I was secretly glad she didn't pull out more, but I was still dismayed that she pulled out anything. "This is not trash!" she proclaimed, holding up the take out container. "You have a whole cabinet of actual tupperware, I didn't think you'd miss a take out container," I countered. The take out container in question has a scalloped bowl. "This would make a great mold - for sand, or jello, or even plaster or something."
True, maybe it would. But she won't do any of those things with it. She'll tuck it back where it was (maybe, eventually, if I'm lucky - right now it's sitting on a ledge where she left it) and eventually probably forget it's even there. I understand, and even respect, creative re-use. I can actually think of a lot of things to do with a bottle cap. Back in college, when I drank more, I would save the cool ones. I made thumb tack sets and jewelry out of them and gave them away to friends. I bought some epoxy and pins and made buttons out of them. My art school roommate covered a whole coat with them. My aunt - whom my mom can't stand that I have a relationship with...another story for another time - flattens them and makes awesome tambourines. I even saved up a whole bunch with the intention of covering a table top with bottle caps and resin. But I never got around to that project, and so, after about a year of hanging on to a box full of bottle caps, I recycled them. Because being an actually creative person means being able to let go of old ideas and run with fresh inspiration sometimes.
Monday, April 28, 2014
Actions Speak Louder Than Words
There's a song from the musical My Fair Lady that's been stuck in my head for the last few days. Eliza, a flower seller from the streets, now dolled up, taught to speak proper English and passing for high society is being romantically perused by a young society boy. She's sick of his flowery promises and poetry and demands, "don't talk of stars, burning above / if you're in love, show me!"
About a month before I moved back home, I visited for a few days to interview for the summer job I ended up getting, which sealed the deal on my plans to return. My mom and I had a rare heart to heart talk. She told me how she didn't feel like a whole person anymore. She lamented that she had nobody to hike with. She admitted that she would like to do more creative things but she didn't have the space to do them. She also whined that she didn't have the money for supplies, but I assured her that she already had far more supplies that she remembered, they were just buried - and that's a fact.
This conversation gave me so much hope. I kept going back to it as I packed my own apartment up and mentally prepared myself for the task of working on the house with my mom. I thought of "reward" projects we could do together. She has an old bedroom set stashed in the garage that she rubs a piece of sandpaper across once every few years and says she's refinishing. I though we could work on this together (I've actually re-finished many pieces of furniture in my line of work) and then move it in to her freshly cleaned bedroom. I pinned projects to do with the mountain of saved coffee cans in the kitchen. I envisioned mornings of hard work, followed by afternoon hikes, after which we'd come home and cook together and eat at the cleaned dining room table. I was excited not just to help her get her life together, but also to help our relationship grow. She's always said what a creative person she was before me (sometimes implying, sometimes straight up saying it's my fault that she gave up on her own creative pursuits), but the problem of her hoarding is so big and prominent, that I've never seen those sides of her. I was excited about the possibility of getting her back to solid footing so that I could see her as a whole person, not just a person struggling with a major mental issue. And, of course, I thought that would be good for her.
How naive was I? She doesn't want to actually sew with the fabric she brings home. She doesn't want to make the lanterns she's saved the mountain of coffee cans for. She doesn't even want to escape the house and go for a walk, let alone a hike. She wants to sit on her ass in front of the TV and waste her life on trashy programming, while making those around her miserable. I know this, because this is what she actually does. If you really want more out of your life, and someone is offering to help you get it, then you take that offer. She's just a lot of talk.
About a month before I moved back home, I visited for a few days to interview for the summer job I ended up getting, which sealed the deal on my plans to return. My mom and I had a rare heart to heart talk. She told me how she didn't feel like a whole person anymore. She lamented that she had nobody to hike with. She admitted that she would like to do more creative things but she didn't have the space to do them. She also whined that she didn't have the money for supplies, but I assured her that she already had far more supplies that she remembered, they were just buried - and that's a fact.
This conversation gave me so much hope. I kept going back to it as I packed my own apartment up and mentally prepared myself for the task of working on the house with my mom. I thought of "reward" projects we could do together. She has an old bedroom set stashed in the garage that she rubs a piece of sandpaper across once every few years and says she's refinishing. I though we could work on this together (I've actually re-finished many pieces of furniture in my line of work) and then move it in to her freshly cleaned bedroom. I pinned projects to do with the mountain of saved coffee cans in the kitchen. I envisioned mornings of hard work, followed by afternoon hikes, after which we'd come home and cook together and eat at the cleaned dining room table. I was excited not just to help her get her life together, but also to help our relationship grow. She's always said what a creative person she was before me (sometimes implying, sometimes straight up saying it's my fault that she gave up on her own creative pursuits), but the problem of her hoarding is so big and prominent, that I've never seen those sides of her. I was excited about the possibility of getting her back to solid footing so that I could see her as a whole person, not just a person struggling with a major mental issue. And, of course, I thought that would be good for her.
How naive was I? She doesn't want to actually sew with the fabric she brings home. She doesn't want to make the lanterns she's saved the mountain of coffee cans for. She doesn't even want to escape the house and go for a walk, let alone a hike. She wants to sit on her ass in front of the TV and waste her life on trashy programming, while making those around her miserable. I know this, because this is what she actually does. If you really want more out of your life, and someone is offering to help you get it, then you take that offer. She's just a lot of talk.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
She's a Brick and I'm Drowning Slowly
My boyfriend and I have been together almost seven years. He's currently still living in the Midwest, finishing out the season at his job, but he'll be joining me here in a month. Here, literally...as in, under the same roof as my mother and I. Back when I was feeling hopeful I thought this was a "good" plan. I would come out a month before my summer job began, my mom and I would have a month to clear out a bedroom, and my boyfriend and I would stay in that bedroom for the summer while we looked for permanent work and housing and got on our feet. Throughout the summer I could help my mom with more cleaning and he could pitch in with some "handyman" things around the house; fixing the broken fence, etc. So, besides my sleep schedule (see last post) this is the second reason why I'm getting really anxious - I don't want to ask my boyfriend to live out of a suitcase, on the living room couch with me for a summer. Asking him to live out of a suitcase in my mom's bedroom with me for the summer is bad enough.
The concern runs deeper than my fears for a miserable summer. Jack's not going to let my mom live with him forever. Even if I somehow magically convinced her to clean up her act (which is highly unlikely), their friendship has completely deteriorated. It's not a healthy living situation, and since it's his house, the cards are in his hand; eventually he will kick her out. The thought makes me so mad I could punch a wall, but I'm resigned to the fact that she'll probably be living with me again before she dies.
I told my boyfriend today on the phone that if he wanted to stay at his job in the Midwest and just break up with me at this point I would understand. I tried to explain that my mother is a pretty unavoidable disaster that I, as an only child, would eventually be forced to take on. He didn't take me up on my offer. I don't think he was really taking me seriously, but I wasn't entirely joking. I don't want him to wake up five years from now in our house, or apartment (I don't know if we'll ever actually be able to afford a house on two salaries in the performing arts), miserable (because my mom is really good at making everyone around her miserable), and regret having hitched up with a girl who's a package deal with a crazy mom.
Who wants to step on board a sinking ship?
The concern runs deeper than my fears for a miserable summer. Jack's not going to let my mom live with him forever. Even if I somehow magically convinced her to clean up her act (which is highly unlikely), their friendship has completely deteriorated. It's not a healthy living situation, and since it's his house, the cards are in his hand; eventually he will kick her out. The thought makes me so mad I could punch a wall, but I'm resigned to the fact that she'll probably be living with me again before she dies.
I told my boyfriend today on the phone that if he wanted to stay at his job in the Midwest and just break up with me at this point I would understand. I tried to explain that my mother is a pretty unavoidable disaster that I, as an only child, would eventually be forced to take on. He didn't take me up on my offer. I don't think he was really taking me seriously, but I wasn't entirely joking. I don't want him to wake up five years from now in our house, or apartment (I don't know if we'll ever actually be able to afford a house on two salaries in the performing arts), miserable (because my mom is really good at making everyone around her miserable), and regret having hitched up with a girl who's a package deal with a crazy mom.
Who wants to step on board a sinking ship?
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
A Convenient Conscious
I knew this was going to be hard, but one thing I was completely unprepared for was how much TV my mom watches. I didn't know I would be battling with the box for moments of her attention. The last time I lived here, in high school, we had one weekly show that we would watch together, and she would occasionally watch the evening news. At some point, however, they got DVR service, and now, unrestricted by the boring lull of daytime TV, my mom can watch TV ALL DAY LONG! She records what seems to be every single prime time TV sitcom, drama, and several news programs and watches them the next day and / or evening, and even late into the night. Since I'm sleeping on the fold out couch in the living room, this has caused another fighting point. I'm used to getting up at 5:30 in the morning for work. At the moment I don't have to get up so early, but I'm accustom to it, and in a month I will be starting another job with a 7:30 am start time, so in my mind it's not worth it for me to totally alter my sleep schedule for a month so that my mom can stay up till midnight watching TV every night and sleep in till 10:00 or later every day.
Every time she complains that I'm inconveniencing her, I remind her that there is a simple solution. We can clean the bedroom, which we agreed would be done before my summer job began, allowing me to sleep and her to watch TV in the living room. Or I could just "stop being so stubborn and follow her sleep schedule since I'm in 'her' house" (not her house).
On Sunday I asked her to pause the TV. "When this program is over, could you please take a TV break and have a conversation with me?" I asked. This prompted: "No!, Why do you always focus on how I'm affecting you - you're affecting me! My shows are piling up - I won't talk to you till Tuesday." Fine. On Tuesday, I asked her to pause the TV. "It's Tuesday. When this program is over, I'd like to have the conversation you promised we could have today" I stated. An eye roll, "You still want to talk? I thought you would drop it." Seriously? I'm not an infant; you can't put a blanket over a toy and make me forget about it. Putting off a conversation from Sunday to Tuesday is not going to make me give up on it.
I expressed my concerns that in the week I'd been home for we had made no progress on the bedroom. A week doesn't sound so long, but in the frame of five weeks to get a goal done...a week is a fifth of that time. I explained that I had been inquiring about rooms to rent, since I was unsure we could meet our originally agreed upon goal, and unwilling to work around her TV viewing once I was working, and I needed to know if I should follow up with people, or if she could honestly still promise me that the bedroom would be ready. She explained that she could only focus on one thing at a time and that she had a bill for a bridge toll hanging over her head and she felt really guilty working on anything else until she took care of that, and this is what had stopped her from working on the room.
So, your guilty conscious about the bridge toll you need to take care of is just strong enough that it keeps you from cleaning, but not quite strong enough to keep you from watching hours and hours of television. How convenient.
Every time she complains that I'm inconveniencing her, I remind her that there is a simple solution. We can clean the bedroom, which we agreed would be done before my summer job began, allowing me to sleep and her to watch TV in the living room. Or I could just "stop being so stubborn and follow her sleep schedule since I'm in 'her' house" (not her house).
On Sunday I asked her to pause the TV. "When this program is over, could you please take a TV break and have a conversation with me?" I asked. This prompted: "No!, Why do you always focus on how I'm affecting you - you're affecting me! My shows are piling up - I won't talk to you till Tuesday." Fine. On Tuesday, I asked her to pause the TV. "It's Tuesday. When this program is over, I'd like to have the conversation you promised we could have today" I stated. An eye roll, "You still want to talk? I thought you would drop it." Seriously? I'm not an infant; you can't put a blanket over a toy and make me forget about it. Putting off a conversation from Sunday to Tuesday is not going to make me give up on it.
I expressed my concerns that in the week I'd been home for we had made no progress on the bedroom. A week doesn't sound so long, but in the frame of five weeks to get a goal done...a week is a fifth of that time. I explained that I had been inquiring about rooms to rent, since I was unsure we could meet our originally agreed upon goal, and unwilling to work around her TV viewing once I was working, and I needed to know if I should follow up with people, or if she could honestly still promise me that the bedroom would be ready. She explained that she could only focus on one thing at a time and that she had a bill for a bridge toll hanging over her head and she felt really guilty working on anything else until she took care of that, and this is what had stopped her from working on the room.
So, your guilty conscious about the bridge toll you need to take care of is just strong enough that it keeps you from cleaning, but not quite strong enough to keep you from watching hours and hours of television. How convenient.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
The Plot Thickens...
About a year ago I was in town for a few days for a friend's wedding. I suggested to my mom that maybe we could look through the patio full of tupperware bins stuffed with old magazines and "trim the fat," or perhaps clean out one of the three broke down cars in the driveway that are full of stuff and therefore can't be towed away. She had a meltdown; there was screaming, crying, and a whole lot of pouting. I felt incredibly overwhelmed and completely disheartened. I didn't even touch any of her stuff. Just talking about possibly touching her stuff brought on a reaction.
I knew I needed help, so after flying home defeated, I started looking up therapists in our area that specialized in compulsive hoarding. I could see that any suggestion from me was going to be viewed as an attack, but I thought maybe suggestions from an impartial outside source would have half a chance. I emailed several offices, and the numbers all came in at about $200 an hour. I cried each time I read one of these emails. My boyfriend and I both work in theater; we support ourselves and manage to pay our bills on time and tuck tiny bits away in savings, but there is no way I can afford to send my mom to therapy at $200 an hour. One kind woman carried on a brief email correspondence with me, even after I told her she was way out of my price range. She suggested I read Digging Out: Helping Your Loved One Manage Clutter, Hoarding, and Compulsive Acquiring by Michael A. Tompkins, PhD, and Tamara L. Hartl, PhD.
This book comes up often in searches for hoarding literature, so I assume it's pretty popular. The thesis of the book is: your loved one probably will not change, so don't try to force them to change. They instead suggest you focus on "harm reduction strategies." The book is written for adult children of hoarders whose hoarding parents are getting old and are having even more trouble navigating their cluttered lifestyle. They suggest making sure pathways are clear and wide enough for a walker, etc. There is one key assumption they make over and over again in the example scenarios: that your hoarding loved one owns their own home (most common), or at least pays their own rent.
My mother lives, rent free, in the home of a family friend...and he is not ok with the current state of the house he owns and she trashes. Let's backtrack a few steps. My mom is a single parent, and I am her only child. She's worked hard in life, but she's done several things "wrong." She's actually a really good pre-school / kindergarten teacher, but she never finished her degree. As she got older and technology past her by, and she couldn't keep organized, and she had more and more trouble "playing well" with younger colleagues, her ability to hold down a job diminished. The last several jobs she's had have all lasted less than a year. She mostly just does private, under the table, tutoring these days.
When I was very young we rented a home, with a housemate, from my grandmother. When that housemate eventually moved out, and my mom started struggling, my gradma let us stay on. Our house was normal when I was very young, but from about first grade on - when my mom tried to go back to school to complete her degree - it slowly filled with stuff. First by mom's room filled. When she couldn't walk in there anymore she put a bookcase in front of the door and we kind of ignored that it was even a room. She slept on the fold out couch in the living room. When our housemate moved out, her room filled next. By third grade I didn't have a bedroom; I slept in a sleeping bag on the floor near the door, with my clothes folded in piles by my head. Our fridge broke and we couldn't get it out of the house, so we bought a small "dorm fridge." Our stove broke, so we only used a microwave. Eventually our plumbing went and every time I took a shower I had to scoop the collected water up with a pitcher and toss it out the bathroom window, one pitcher at a time. If I had called child protective services, I would have been taken away from her: no question.
When I was in high school she went on a few dates with a family friend - a man who knew my uncle, her brother. Their relationship as a couple didn't work out, but they remained friends, and somehow, in a very awkward series of events that I don't remember the details of, she moved in with him. I slowly started staying there too, and by the time I was a junior, we lived there and she just abandoned our old house, full of stuff. Jack (not his real name) had a bedroom, my mom had a bedroom, and I slept on the murphy bed in the dining room. For a while this arrangement wasn't so bad. My mom helped with household chores and Jack seemed to enjoy, or at least not mind, the noise and life we brought to his very quiet, very empty, bachelor pad.
But, I left for college, and my mom slowly started to fill his home too. First the basement (which takes up the full footprint of the house), then the garage, and then her bedroom (she now sleeps with him...even though they are not in a relationship). The living room, dining room, and kitchen are still maneuverable, but there are stacks climbing up the walls in all three of these rooms. They live in a nice climate, so even the patio is stacked with tupperware bins. Jack obviously complained, and their relationship became fraught, but he doesn't have the heart to kick her out, so she stays, and they fight, and he is clearly miserable. By the way, her siblings eventually broke into the old house and cleaned up after her; causing an epic meltdown.
It fills me with such disgust that she can do this to another human being. A human being she would be homeless without. To do this to a child is to walk all over them. To do this to an adult is to slap them in the face. I don't know which is worse. Jack has threatened to throw her out several times. I don't know what I would do if he ever actually did. I don't want her with me. I've told her that if it comes to that I would take her, but none of her stuff. If she ever lives under my roof she will be afforded not an ounce of privacy. I will monitor every item she brings in, and regularly check her living space like a teenager suspected of drug use. I feel wretched to leave her as someone else's burden, but I don't want to take her on as mine again.
If she owned her own home, I would let her fill it to the gills, wallow in her own filth to her heart's content, and accept the job of cleaning up after her death. But that's not our situation. The book focuses on forgiving your loved one for the past. The past still hurts me, but I'm out and over it. There were several things my mother did right as a parent; she put my education above all else (she'll say that's why the house slid, though that doesn't account for her current living situation), and exposed me to a lot of art and culture. What I'm worried about is not the past, but the future. I've served my time with her, and I don't want to take on another prison sentence. I've worked hard to provide for myself, and I take extreme pride in my living space.
So, who's written the self help book for our situation? I'm desperate to read it.
I knew I needed help, so after flying home defeated, I started looking up therapists in our area that specialized in compulsive hoarding. I could see that any suggestion from me was going to be viewed as an attack, but I thought maybe suggestions from an impartial outside source would have half a chance. I emailed several offices, and the numbers all came in at about $200 an hour. I cried each time I read one of these emails. My boyfriend and I both work in theater; we support ourselves and manage to pay our bills on time and tuck tiny bits away in savings, but there is no way I can afford to send my mom to therapy at $200 an hour. One kind woman carried on a brief email correspondence with me, even after I told her she was way out of my price range. She suggested I read Digging Out: Helping Your Loved One Manage Clutter, Hoarding, and Compulsive Acquiring by Michael A. Tompkins, PhD, and Tamara L. Hartl, PhD.
This book comes up often in searches for hoarding literature, so I assume it's pretty popular. The thesis of the book is: your loved one probably will not change, so don't try to force them to change. They instead suggest you focus on "harm reduction strategies." The book is written for adult children of hoarders whose hoarding parents are getting old and are having even more trouble navigating their cluttered lifestyle. They suggest making sure pathways are clear and wide enough for a walker, etc. There is one key assumption they make over and over again in the example scenarios: that your hoarding loved one owns their own home (most common), or at least pays their own rent.
My mother lives, rent free, in the home of a family friend...and he is not ok with the current state of the house he owns and she trashes. Let's backtrack a few steps. My mom is a single parent, and I am her only child. She's worked hard in life, but she's done several things "wrong." She's actually a really good pre-school / kindergarten teacher, but she never finished her degree. As she got older and technology past her by, and she couldn't keep organized, and she had more and more trouble "playing well" with younger colleagues, her ability to hold down a job diminished. The last several jobs she's had have all lasted less than a year. She mostly just does private, under the table, tutoring these days.
When I was very young we rented a home, with a housemate, from my grandmother. When that housemate eventually moved out, and my mom started struggling, my gradma let us stay on. Our house was normal when I was very young, but from about first grade on - when my mom tried to go back to school to complete her degree - it slowly filled with stuff. First by mom's room filled. When she couldn't walk in there anymore she put a bookcase in front of the door and we kind of ignored that it was even a room. She slept on the fold out couch in the living room. When our housemate moved out, her room filled next. By third grade I didn't have a bedroom; I slept in a sleeping bag on the floor near the door, with my clothes folded in piles by my head. Our fridge broke and we couldn't get it out of the house, so we bought a small "dorm fridge." Our stove broke, so we only used a microwave. Eventually our plumbing went and every time I took a shower I had to scoop the collected water up with a pitcher and toss it out the bathroom window, one pitcher at a time. If I had called child protective services, I would have been taken away from her: no question.
When I was in high school she went on a few dates with a family friend - a man who knew my uncle, her brother. Their relationship as a couple didn't work out, but they remained friends, and somehow, in a very awkward series of events that I don't remember the details of, she moved in with him. I slowly started staying there too, and by the time I was a junior, we lived there and she just abandoned our old house, full of stuff. Jack (not his real name) had a bedroom, my mom had a bedroom, and I slept on the murphy bed in the dining room. For a while this arrangement wasn't so bad. My mom helped with household chores and Jack seemed to enjoy, or at least not mind, the noise and life we brought to his very quiet, very empty, bachelor pad.
But, I left for college, and my mom slowly started to fill his home too. First the basement (which takes up the full footprint of the house), then the garage, and then her bedroom (she now sleeps with him...even though they are not in a relationship). The living room, dining room, and kitchen are still maneuverable, but there are stacks climbing up the walls in all three of these rooms. They live in a nice climate, so even the patio is stacked with tupperware bins. Jack obviously complained, and their relationship became fraught, but he doesn't have the heart to kick her out, so she stays, and they fight, and he is clearly miserable. By the way, her siblings eventually broke into the old house and cleaned up after her; causing an epic meltdown.
It fills me with such disgust that she can do this to another human being. A human being she would be homeless without. To do this to a child is to walk all over them. To do this to an adult is to slap them in the face. I don't know which is worse. Jack has threatened to throw her out several times. I don't know what I would do if he ever actually did. I don't want her with me. I've told her that if it comes to that I would take her, but none of her stuff. If she ever lives under my roof she will be afforded not an ounce of privacy. I will monitor every item she brings in, and regularly check her living space like a teenager suspected of drug use. I feel wretched to leave her as someone else's burden, but I don't want to take her on as mine again.
If she owned her own home, I would let her fill it to the gills, wallow in her own filth to her heart's content, and accept the job of cleaning up after her death. But that's not our situation. The book focuses on forgiving your loved one for the past. The past still hurts me, but I'm out and over it. There were several things my mother did right as a parent; she put my education above all else (she'll say that's why the house slid, though that doesn't account for her current living situation), and exposed me to a lot of art and culture. What I'm worried about is not the past, but the future. I've served my time with her, and I don't want to take on another prison sentence. I've worked hard to provide for myself, and I take extreme pride in my living space.
So, who's written the self help book for our situation? I'm desperate to read it.
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