Growing Up With a Hoarder Here is the journey I had growing up with a hoarder, and the negative impact it had on me, and the insights I gained along the way. When I was around 15 years old, I felt I …
Ah, the joys of living in a hoarder’s house. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to grow up amidst a mountain of clutter, let me take you on a tour of my life—complete with questionable decisions and a few too many dust bunnies. Spoiler alert: it’s not a clean path.
First off, let’s address the elephant in the room—or rather, the stacks of newspapers, old furniture, and assorted knick-knacks that have taken over our living space. You see, my mom has been a proud hoarder for as long as I can remember. In fact, I’m convinced that she’s on a mission to collect every single item that could ever be deemed ‘interesting’ or ‘useful’—because, you know, you never know when you might need a broken toaster from 1998 or a collection of Beanie Babies that are definitely not making a comeback.
Living in this house has been a rollercoaster ride of emotions. On one hand, it’s like living in a treasure trove of nostalgic memories; on the other hand, it feels like navigating a post-apocalyptic wasteland. I’ve learned to embrace the chaos. Need a snack? Good luck finding the kitchen. It’s probably buried under a pile of miscellaneous boxes and random holiday decorations that haven’t seen the light of day since 2010.
Now, let’s talk about cleaning—because that’s a concept that’s as foreign to my mom as the idea of throwing away anything that isn’t actively disintegrating. I’ve tried to help, really I have. I’ve wielded trash bags like a knight with a sword, ready to slay the clutter dragon. However, every time I attempt to tidy up, it’s like I’m opening Pandora’s box. “Oh, but I might need this!” she says, clutching a half-broken lamp like it’s a family heirloom.
And let’s not forget the conversations that come with trying to declutter. They usually go something like this:
Me: “Mom, can we get rid of this old couch? It’s practically a health hazard.”
Mom: “But it’s got character! Plus, it’s only slightly moldy!”
It’s moments like these that make me question my life choices. I mean, who knew that the word ‘character’ could be used to describe a couch that’s seen more stains than a toddler’s shirt?
As I approach adulthood, I find myself grappling with the effects of this upbringing. On one hand, I’ve become a master at finding things in piles of stuff—like a professional treasure hunter. On the other hand, I have a growing fear of clutter myself. I sometimes catch myself wondering if I’m destined to become a minimalist or if I’ll end up with my own collection of weird items, buried in my future home.
To all my fellow children of hoarders, I feel you. We’ve survived the chaos, and we’ll emerge stronger—armed with a unique set of skills that include finding lost items in record time and avoiding the dreaded ‘cleaning day’ at all costs.
So here’s to us: the kids who’ve grown up in cluttered homes, navigating the delicate balance between nostalgia and sanity. May we find our own paths, free of the clutter that has shaped us, or at least learn to make a little more room for the things that truly matter. And if all else fails, there’s always the option of just throwing everything out and starting fresh—if only convincing mom to let go of her ‘treasures’ were as easy as it sounds!
Inspired by: “My mom is a hoarder. In my 16 years of living in this house I’ve never seen it clean. I’m 16.” (r/mildlyinfuriating)