I just watched an episode of Hoarders on A&E and the hoarder on this episode was a very clean-cut stepford-ish middle-aged white woman who lives in a large colonial house. At first, I was aghast and shocked by the apparent incongruity from her public facade and her real 'internal' (literal and figurative) mental instability. The piles...no, heaps...no, mountains of STUFF in her home was suffocating, even for me. She seemed to justify the necessity for all of the items, from empty cardboard boxes to a "collection" of beads for a jewelry business or hobby that never took off.
Just as I was in the throes of judging this woman's mess and blindness to the severity of her condition I realized that there were several items missing from the guest room where I have been staying in my parents' home and was thrown into a mild panic. I readily admit that I own too many things. Perhaps I'm a Grade 1 or 2 hoarder (5 being the worst case folks that appear on TV). Of course, when I was packing for my stay at their house, I purposely packed only one small bag...but even the few items I brought with me have already started to "disappear."
It made me wonder if part of my hoarding tendency stems from growing up in my mother's home where she threw away absolutely whatever she wanted, regardless of what the item was or to whom it belonged. I remember going to the municipal dumpster to dig through piles of garages to look for a retainer (in its case) that my mother had thrown away, coming home to find that she had thrown away my entire science project because it "cluttered my desk" and the numerous times meaningful keepsakes, often gifts from friends, and sometimes entire sections of my wardrobe have been gifted or donated to people without my knowledge and certainly without my consent.
In recent years, I have started to pare down my possessions to just the essentials. This process has certainly been more difficult and drawn out that I had imagined it would be. It has, however, been very cathartic to simplify my home and my life in this way. But coming back into my mother's home or even letter her into mine still throws me back into episodes of anxiety. Even today, when I had discovered that my mother had thrown away my toothbrush, my agenda ("It was full writing. Buy a new one.") I was back to being 15, paralyzingly insecure and unable to express my frustration.
Logically, she's right. Things are just things but the loss/lack of control in your own life is immensely unsettling and rapt with anxiety. Things ARE just things but they often represent memories, an intention and mostly may be a public display of how we live our lives. So when people start throwing things away, it seems to signify that parts of our lives are meaningless or unimportant.
Of course, when I see the people on episodes of Hoarders, it is often hard to commiserate or sympathize with their need for thousands of creepy stuffed animals or piles of out of date newspapers but overall, I just feel sad for them. Obviously they use these possessions to protect themselves from whatever has given them fear in their lives. Wait...so does that mean that I'm afraid of my own mother? Oh, this is opening a giant can of Freudian worms and I'd rather keep buried under a giant stack of expired newspapers...
Just as I was in the throes of judging this woman's mess and blindness to the severity of her condition I realized that there were several items missing from the guest room where I have been staying in my parents' home and was thrown into a mild panic. I readily admit that I own too many things. Perhaps I'm a Grade 1 or 2 hoarder (5 being the worst case folks that appear on TV). Of course, when I was packing for my stay at their house, I purposely packed only one small bag...but even the few items I brought with me have already started to "disappear."
It made me wonder if part of my hoarding tendency stems from growing up in my mother's home where she threw away absolutely whatever she wanted, regardless of what the item was or to whom it belonged. I remember going to the municipal dumpster to dig through piles of garages to look for a retainer (in its case) that my mother had thrown away, coming home to find that she had thrown away my entire science project because it "cluttered my desk" and the numerous times meaningful keepsakes, often gifts from friends, and sometimes entire sections of my wardrobe have been gifted or donated to people without my knowledge and certainly without my consent.
In recent years, I have started to pare down my possessions to just the essentials. This process has certainly been more difficult and drawn out that I had imagined it would be. It has, however, been very cathartic to simplify my home and my life in this way. But coming back into my mother's home or even letter her into mine still throws me back into episodes of anxiety. Even today, when I had discovered that my mother had thrown away my toothbrush, my agenda ("It was full writing. Buy a new one.") I was back to being 15, paralyzingly insecure and unable to express my frustration.
Logically, she's right. Things are just things but the loss/lack of control in your own life is immensely unsettling and rapt with anxiety. Things ARE just things but they often represent memories, an intention and mostly may be a public display of how we live our lives. So when people start throwing things away, it seems to signify that parts of our lives are meaningless or unimportant.
Of course, when I see the people on episodes of Hoarders, it is often hard to commiserate or sympathize with their need for thousands of creepy stuffed animals or piles of out of date newspapers but overall, I just feel sad for them. Obviously they use these possessions to protect themselves from whatever has given them fear in their lives. Wait...so does that mean that I'm afraid of my own mother? Oh, this is opening a giant can of Freudian worms and I'd rather keep buried under a giant stack of expired newspapers...
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