A Place for Everything ... and Everything in its Place

To the left, to the left
To the left, to the left
To the left, to the left

Everything you own in the box to the left
In the closet that's my stuff, yes
If I bought it please don't touch

My mother is a hoarder.  Yes, just like on TV.  I can't go home without being overcome by this overwhelming urge to light a match and run.  In fact, this is one of the major reasons why I don't go home to visit.  There's no place to sit.  No place to eat.  No place to walk, stand or lean.  I often joke that Jimmy Hoffa is probably buried upstairs in the spare bedroom, under the stack of National Enquirers from 1978.  She gets understandably mad at me.  My dad just stays in "his room" and blocks it out. 

She's always been like this.  I watch the hoarding shows, trying to figure out why she's that way, why she does it.  Her parents were hoarders, too.  I remember going to their house and being frightened of the mounds of stuff that were piled to the ceiling, waiting to topple and crush my small five-year old self.  When I was in college, my uncle who still lived at home with my grandparents lit a match, tossed it and ran, burning the house to the ground and killing my grandfather in the process.  I often wonder if it was all of the "stuff" that pushed him over the edge.  Growing up in that environment is not healthy.  I was always tidying up my tiny little cubicle sized bedroom.  I refused to let her sickness invade my space.  I loved going to my friends' houses just to have some sense of normalcy.

Luckily, I did not inherit the gene.  Thankfully, luckily and happily, I did not inherit that gene.  Praise the Lord, I did not inherit that gene.

But, I worry about it.  I worry that it's hidden inside of me, waiting to burst free and make me stop taking out the trash, make me fill every nook and cranny of my home with things I can't use, don't need and won't even see after awhile.  Whenever anyone jokes about how we all turn into our parents some day, I quiver with fear at the thought.  I do not want to be my mother some day.

My house is tidy.  I try to keep everything organized and in good condition.  

I like to "collect" things that mean something to me.  I do attach sentimental value to things.  However, I have no qualms tossing out clothing that doesn't fit, magazines I'll never read, household items that have no use to me...  You can walk around my apartment easily.  There are no mounds of things to fear here.

I was sitting at a red light today and looked over and saw an old station wagon stuffed to the brim with "stuff".  The only "clear spots" were where the driver and passenger were sitting.  OK, yes, they could have been homeless and that was everything they owned contained in a metal container on wheels.  However, I doubt it.  I wanted to ask them, "Why do you do this?  What pleasure do you get out of this?"  I also wanted to offer to clean out their car for them.

Someone asked me recently why I was so proud of my closet reorganization.  I just smiled and said, "Because it made me feel better to do it."   The reality is -- my closet represented a dark side of me that showed me that I was capable of becoming my mom.   I blamed depression, bad back, laziness, lack of energy... whatever was handy.  Every time I opened that closet door and saw all of the clutter inside, I was reminded of where I came from.

But, now it is clean, organized and manageable.  The clothing has been donated and I feel so much better looking inside and seeing it so organized.

Maybe I am not my mother's daughter after all.