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The Difficult Truths of Growing Up in a Hoarder’s Home
by Emily Hart
Updated: May 28, 2021
Originally Published: May 28, 2021
Chaos. It’s more than just a word; it’s a mood, a state of being, and, by definition, a disorder. Chaos represents complete disorder and confusion, and it is the one word that encapsulates my upbringing. I spent 18 years of my life surrounded by chaos.
To be clear, there were many reasons for this turmoil. My mother struggled with mental health issues, my father passed away when I was only 12, and I underwent back surgery just before turning 15. Five screws and a rod were placed in my spine. However, these events alone don’t define the chaos of my childhood. Instead, it was the accumulation of “stuff” that truly created the chaos. Hoarding.
Ironically, I can’t pinpoint when the hoarding started. We always had a lot of toys and various belongings. I had countless dolls and our collection of VHS tapes, cassette tapes, books, records, and CDs was vast. Our pantry was always stocked. We had enough food to sustain an army. As a child, I thought this was normal. I believed that having so much was just how life was meant to be. But as I grew older, the situation spiraled out of control. What was once a collection of belongings turned into a cluttered maze of obstacles. Looking back, the signs of hoarding are unmistakable.
I remember an overflowing pantry filled with boxes, bottles, and cans. Our dining room was unusable, overtaken by piles of paper — scrap paper, newspapers, bills — scattered everywhere. Closets were jam-packed with clothes we never cleaned. In the living room, stacks of old TV guides created a shrine to shows long forgotten. Our house resembled a storage unit rather than a home. My mother’s shopping habits only exacerbated the issue; she never bought just one of anything. Instead, she purchased cereal and stuffing in bulk and hoarded makeup as if it were going out of fashion. I remember finding five hair color kits in our bathroom and an excessive number of hair products.
And then there were the bugs.
Cereal often had critters, and worms wriggled around on the carpet.
I hated it. I despised my mother’s peculiar habits and the mess that consumed our lives. We rarely had visitors, and inviting friends over was practically forbidden. The lack of social interaction stunted both my sister’s and my growth, leading to significant anxiety issues. The mold and dust likely worsened my sister’s chronic lung problems. By the time I reached high school, I felt filthy and disheveled, compensating with oversized clothing and big hairstyles.
The most surprising impact of my mother’s hoarding is how it still affects me today. Although I left home at 18, her actions have left a lasting mark on my life. I often feel small, unnoticed, and judged by others. I am a neat freak; clutter sends me into a frenzy. Piles of toys, books, or clothes ignite feelings of anger, stress, and sadness. I struggle to welcome guests into my space, spending hours cleaning to make it look pristine. Making friends is a challenge, and I wear a metaphorical mask, hiding behind it as I once did with the clutter in my room.
I recognize that my extreme behaviors are problematic — after all, nothing extreme is healthy. This is an issue I’m working to address with my therapist, who helps me navigate my anxiety and cope with the chaos. Yet, living in the shadow of hoarding is a lifelong battle, and it can be utterly exhausting.
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