Where Have We Been?

By we, I mean the collective "we", as in all of us. I know where I've been, sort of. I have been here, looking at the stuff in my house, making new pathways out of the boxes that are piled in my kitchen and hallway, listening to my husband of 25 years freaking out every time he realizes that he can't park in the garage because I have it packed to the rafters with MY shit, and wondering when I will ever be at the point when I feel like actually going through it all.

Of course, hubby's worry is that when our lease is due for renewal in April that the landlords will have decided that they want to sell the house which means another awful moving day for us (me) if I can't get my act together. My worry is that he is part of the stuff that I'd have to move with me if we have to go.

Suffice it to say that getting through the last oh, maybe 14 years of being married to a hoarder has not been easy on said hubby, but man, he really needs to lighten up! It is difficult enough to be going through the guilt of "scarring my children for life" with this dis-ease of mine. But to have him scream, bark, pant, crash, blow up, freak out, scream louder, throw things, kick walls (if you are reading this, dear landlords, that was at our house that we owned...), and threaten to start a bonfire with all of my shit doesn't help me at all.

Do any of you watch the "Hoarder" shows? Well, our house isn't like that. And I keep it clean. Mostly. I have to vacuum and dust because of the pets. And I keep the kitchen clean because I have to use it to cook for my family. And just last week, we had a horrible back-up in the upstairs bathtub, but once the water finally receded, I scrubbed the tub TWICE! Once to get out all of the back-up crud, and the second time to get out all of the caked on dirt from the previous tenants once and for all. It kind of made me sick to realize that all of this dirt that we have been standing on in the shower for the past nine months was leftover from the people before us. But I made a concoction of stuff and scrubbed like crazy and finally got it all out. It looks brand new! I think my lungs are okay from the secret mix that I made, but time will tell. And we have a sparkling white bathtub to boot!

Anyway, back to the "Hoarder" shows. It seems that there are one of two scenarios that happen on them with married couples. Scenario one is that BOTH parties get sucked into the unreality of the situation at hand, and then neither one of them knows how to start the process of de-cluttering, so they just keep things as they are. Scenario two is that one partner finally has to leave the situation because they just can't handle it any more. Most times, they still keep a relationship with their spouse, keeping quiet about what's going on to an extent, but never trying to help in a way that would make things better. They live in separate places leaving the partner with the dis-order feeling as cluttered in their thoughts as they are in the home.

My husband will not watch the shows with me. He tells me that my therapist was a quack and does not know what she is talking about. Or that I didn't really listen to her because I'm obviously not going through the steps that I should be going through to make this all go away. He says that I probably lied to her during every session. He was there for a session once. He was supposed to listen to her, to her and my conversation to see how he could help me. Instead, he started getting very agitated and got progressively louder and more belligerent until she finally asked me to leave the room. I could not hear exactly what they were saying, but I did get the gist of what was going on. She, in as an even tone as was possible, told him that he was toxic to me, and that he was probably not going to be the one who would be helping me. And I wonder why my life is so cluttered?

Last thing to talk about today. I have done it again. I have two new dogs that are not in my pictures. All but one of the original animals that are included in my pictures on the blog were either taken away from me or have died (due to old age and one horrible accident). In order to "feel the love" that I seem to be missing, I have Santo and Sage. They are two pit bulls. And I have Coraline, Lola, Paisley, Summer, and Willow. They are the house cats. Summer and Willow have feline leukemia and are about 7-months-old. They live in our bedroom because they can't be around the other cats. I have found an incredible litter that keeps the smell of the cats at bay. It is really nice to walk into the house and not smell cats. The dogs are all housebroken, so they are not an issue. But what is an issue is that I can't stop! I'm not kidding! A new animal means a new living creature that loves me...unconditionally. And that is what is at the heart of hoarding. The animals love me. I love them. I love the stuff. Or I love the memories that it represents. It is a vicious cycle. But knowing that is not enough.

So, where have you all been? And what new things can you share with me? Well, not things. I have enough things. But what is new with you?

Please Help Save These Pit Bulls!

Hoarding Headaches

Okay, so I've been working (a little) to try to make some sense out of this mess that is my house. I've made (a little) progress. I've thrown away (a little) garbage, recycled (a LOT) of paper, and I have even decided to get rid of everything that doesn't fit the image I have in my head of what I want the house to look like. But I just got a terrible headache and it is because I went (a little) too gung ho on a recent project.

I started selling Avon in June. It's cool. Although, I think I've bought a lot more than I've sold. It's true. I am my own best customer. I don't even wear make up. But I have to try new things in order to be able to sell them. Anyway, I've done seven campaigns so far. And in typical hoarder fashion, I was stacking all of the boxes from my orders in a space in the sun room off of the living room. I looked at it one day last week and realized there was a better way to handle the mess. I went through everything, put all of the paperwork that I needed like invoices, training manuals, one of each of the old campaign catalogs for reference, stuff like that in one box. In another box, I put all of the extra products that I have to sell directly to clients. And in the last box, all of the current paperwork for the next two upcoming campaigns. Nice, right? Not so much today.

I went onto my website from a different computer which meant that I needed to put in my account number and password instead of just getting onto the site from my computer where it is automatically entered for me. I started looking around for the box that I have all of my original paperwork in so that I could get the number and HOLY SHIT!, it's not here anywhere! That's when the headache started. I had put everything back into two Avon boxes. I also put all of the aforementioned recyclable paper into two of the other empty Avon boxes. I was so excited to have Pete take the boxes out to the recycle bin that I inadvertently gave him the box with the stuff that I needed to save. It is a hoarders nightmare!

One of the fears that I have as a hoarder is that I am afraid that if I give up something willingly, somehow some day I am going to need it for something. Case in point, all of my damn paperwork! How am I going to go and sort through anything without fear of throwing the wrong thing away now? I am making myself sick over this stupid error. But am I supposed to just laugh it off and say, "OMG...hahaha...I'm such an idiot...hahaha!"? Shit! I NEED that stuff!

I wonder what my therapist will say. I'm sure she'll ask me what my anxiety level was on a scale of 1 to 10. (It's an 11, by the way.) I mean, this isn't just some broken toy or a ripped up book or a set of New Kids on the Block bed sheets (which are going in the yard sale...maybe). This is my work! Arrrggggg...I can't breathe! I am never going to throw anything away again!

March 21st, 2010...I graciously open my door and my home to a 2-man camera crew and a director who are here on behalf of Animal Planet. They will be here with us for the week, filming us at will and trying to get us to live as normally as possible. No, they aren't sleeping here and there are not cameras set up in every room of our tiny little house, but anywhere we go in our house, we carry microphones clipped to our shirts and the cameras follow us everywhere. I admit, I cleaned a little before they came here. I tried to clean off the dining room table enough so that we could maybe even eat in there instead of the TV trays we usually use in the living room. But getting around in here is still difficult at best. I had no idea how used to this they all were.

The first day of filming was easy. "Just go about your normal routine", is what we were all told. They filmed Pete getting up in the morning to go out to look for work. They filmed me still in the bed with seven cats and a chihuahua all cuddled up with me. They filmed my sleepy kids getting up late in the morning which is part of their daily routine (ah...the lives of an un-schooling family!). They just filmed and filmed and filmed!

I got up and did what I normally do which is take my dogs out before anyone has an accident. Louie, our beagle mix is screaming his high-pitched wail in his kennel as he waits for me to get downstairs. As I descend the stairs, the other dog that sleeps in a kennel, Jacy, starts pacing and pawing loudly to get out. It's a run to the back with four dogs right at my heels. I let them out into the concrete back yard that we use as a dog run. After I clean up the waste, I go back in for feeding time. Four dogs, four feeding areas in my teeny, tiny kitchen. I have an order in which I feed the dogs. It's the hierarchy of the pack in my home. First Spirit because he is the oldest and the slowest to eat. Then Jacy. He needs to know that he has a higher spot on the chain than the other two dogs. Then Louie and finally, my latest acquisition, Koda the chihuahua. The dogs are nervously pacing, waiting anxiously for their filled bowls to be placed on the floor. All the while, a cameraman is following me around filming. He's filming the poop out on the dog run, he's filming the food in the dog food bin, he's filming the clutter on the kitchen counters, he's filming the dogs eagerly wolfing down their food. No big deal. As long as he can stay out of my way, I'll give him what he wants on film.

Next come the cats. I have to block the stairway when I go upstairs because once I fill the cat food bowls, if a dog gets up there, it's gone. They also like to eat poop out of the litter boxes. The chihuahua slips upstairs before I can block it, but I think, "No big deal." I scoop out the three litter boxes that desperately need cleaning while seven cats surround my feet. They, too, are waiting for their food bowls to be filled. I go to clean out their water bowls and get them fresh water from the bathroom sink. The food bowls are lined up in the upstairs hallway. But as I come out of the bathroom, right in front of me at my girls' bedroom door, a new pile of poop. "Damn that little chihuahua", I think as I go to clean it. "Not on National TV!" But too late. The cameraman spies it first and he is getting a close-up...of the poop! I clean it up, muttering under my breath as I prepare to fill up the row of bowls with food. Seven happy cats, one pissed off pet owner and a quivering little chihuahua, all caught on tape.
And I still don't know what I'm in for here. I'm thinking that I handled that pretty well. My life with these animals is not so abnormal. I can handle it. I am NOT overwhelmed. Am I?

Animal Hoarding

I have to take a break from my life story to get to the root of why I started this blog in the first place.

A few months ago, I saw an ad on the internet looking for people who had a lot of household pets. I wrote them an email and explained that (at the time) we had four dogs, seven cats, four parakeets, four frogs and two leopard Geckos. I wrote that I was the primary caregiver for the animals and that they were not a burden or a problem for me. What happened next was interesting.

I got a phone call from a young woman. She represented a production company that was interested in hearing my whole story. I've never been shy about telling people about myself, so I took the bait. I described our home, our living situation, our philosophies. I talked about my pets, my kids and my husband. She asked questions, I answered them. She then asked if it might be possible to talk with my husband. I gave her his cell number. I told him about our conversation and told him that he should be getting a call. He did.

The story he told the production assistant was a little more, well, blunt and kind of vulgar. He told her how when the cats threw up he wanted to cut their heads off. He told her that he wanted to roast the parakeets for an appetizer. He also told her that he would love to have a giant bonfire and just burn up all my stuff. She thought he was hilarious. Right.

After quite a few more phone calls and question and answer sessions, they sent us a Flip camera and a list of questions for us to ask each other. They wanted us to make an audition tape of sorts. We happily agreed to the task. There was one thing that stuck out for me in the course of Pete interviewing me. Something he said resonated with me and I had to ask him, "Wait a minute...do you regard my pets as some of my things?" I realized that I loved my animal companions immensely and regarded them as part of the family. He did not. The producers saw something in that tape that neither of us recognized. And so our TV story was born.

After a few more phone interviews with the director that was going to shoot our episode, we were all set for the TV crew. They flew in with all of their equipment and became a part of our lives for a week. We were going to be recording a show for Animal Planet! I had no idea what to expect. I also had no idea of where this adventure was heading.

There's Plenty More Where He Came From

Things are supposed to be getting better. I have to try to stay in that mindset, but there have been setbacks. I am stubborn and can be very rigid in my thoughts and actions. But I was so open to this idea of change, and now I feel like there are too many corners to try to turn. I wish I could move to a round house!

I went to an all-girl Catholic high school. It was a source of financial stress for my parents as well as myself. I was allowed to go to that school as long as I promised to get and hold a job to pay for it myself. I did. I just really wanted to try something that no one would have expected of me at the time. So my idea was to stay away from places where there would be boys. Little did I know, boys loved to hang around all-girl Catholic high schools.

After graduating from grammar school, I spent the summer working during the day, and hanging out with my friends in the park at night. There was the experimental drinking and different "couplings" going on, but mostly, I just wanted to enjoy the freedom of not having to think too much about what I was going to do in September when high school started.

There was a boy that I thought was so cute back in school, but he was two years younger than me and I knew I would have been teased mercilessly if I tried to go after him, so I did the next best thing. I started to date his brother. We had gone to school together since at least first grade, and I had never noticed him until graduation. How sad and stuck up is that? But I let my intentions be known and he was all for it. DG and I became an item that summer and continued to be an item up through the beginning of our senior year.

Oh, don't fool yourself into thinking that I was committed in any way. He had football camp during the summer, so I amused myself with other guys while he was so busy. One time, at a party, I actually made out with his brother (yep...the same one that was two years younger than me) in my best friend's parent's bedroom. There were the carnival workers, the lifeguards from the beach where I worked, the older guy that worked at a factory, and the guy in the "gang" called TCB (The Chicago Basement). At that time in my life, I was a "boy hoarder". I couldn't get enough of them. I thought boys were so much fun because I felt I was superior to them on so many levels. They were like pets to me. And if one of them bugged out, there were always plenty more where he came from.

And poor, DG; he had no clue of what was going on while he was away. But he'd come back from camp, and we would go right back to being "boyfriend and girlfriend" like nothing was ever going to change. Until it did.

How I Survived Catholic School

I know. You're wondering what in the world this would have to do with hoarding. To be honest, I'm not sure. But it is a part of my history. And I'm looking for answers. So please bear with me if I try to zoom in in my own strange way to where all of this may have started.

When I started Kindergarten, I was not a child in the era of "kindler, gentler" parenting. It was 1962 and the first day of school was a drop and run situation. There was no preparation, there was no time for the moms to hang out in the classroom, giving all of us the opportunity to cling or cry or scream, "Please don't leave me here!" My mom walked me up the steps, told Miss Flemming (my teacher) my name, and she left me there. I sat down at a table with three or four other kids and just started to play with the toys on the table. And there was Patrick H, a big, ruddy-faced boy who looked confused and bewildered, sitting across from me playing with a little collapsible puzzle. But then he spoke to me and he made me laugh and I forgot about being abandoned by my mom. I also realized right away that this was my time. No brothers or pretty little sister to take away my toys. I liked it!

I also realized, at the very tender age of 5, that boys were fascinating! And that would be the secret of making it through the next eight years. Boys. They easily handed over what they were playing with if you just smiled at them when you asked for it. Sometimes, if you just looked at them, caught their eye, and kind of cocked your head ever so slightly, you didn't even have to ask. They asked you! "Here, want this?" Boys.

I had a nun as a teacher in first grade. She was young and beautiful, even hidden beneath the big, heavy black habit that her husband, God, made her wear. She was so beautiful that I wanted to be just like her. It was in first grade that I decided that I wanted to be a nun. And I actually kept that thought until about fourth grade, even though I was "engaged" by the end of first grade to Steve C, when I found out that the nuns' husband was shared by all of them. And that he wasn't really a husband at all. He was the "one" that I was always being warned about; the one that was always watching me and keeping track of every little thing I did. Who wanted to be married to someone like that? So, Steve C and I still planned to marry after college.

Third grade year was a big one. I got my first bra, and later in the year, my first period. Both of these momentous occasions were marked by my mom calling every person she knew to let them know of my bewildering changes. "I took Robin out for her first bra today! Uh huh. Yep, 32 double A. I know. (Giggles) Can you believe it?" And then, "Robin is a woman today." What the hell was THAT? I wasn't even 10-years-old for another few weeks yet! What does that mean? I don't understand. But, after the phone calls were finished, she brought me up to her room and went into her closet and pulled down a pretty blue box and, very ceremoniously, handed it to me. In it were all the secrets of "womanhood"-the pads, the funny, stretchy belt, a couple of pamphlets and a book full of pictures of odd body parts. She explained how she had ordered it from a magazine a while back and was waiting for the right time to give it to me. I didn't realize until later in my life that it should have been a few years later than that, but we don't mess with Mother Nature. Anyway, she struck the fear of Jesus into me as she explained, in the best way she knew how, about how my life was going to change with the onset of this new "monthly visitor", and how boys were now a big NO NO. I interpreted that as, "Boys...free-for-all!"

Fifth grade came and Steve walked Sheila H home after school one day and I broke up with him. He was heartbroken. Ah, the power in that was exhilarating! There was also power in letting these boys, who had recently discovered their "waking manliness", tug on my bra strap. The big problems came, however, when these same boys would corner me in the coat closet to be able to brush up against my chest as they were reaching for their coats. They were fumbling idiots, and I was getting fed up. Although I had always loved the attention that I got from boys, this was going overboard. I told my parents about what was going on and the boys and I were called down to the principal's office. They felt betrayed by me. I felt like shit.

Other unforgettable times in grade school included the ring that Jerry J gave me in fourth grade. My teacher, Mrs. M made me give it back to him. I cried and cried. She bought me a new ring and brought it to school with her the next day, but I refused to speak with her for the rest of the school year other than anything that had to do with school. Sixth grade brought my first real love letter, and it was from an EIGHTH GRADER! John H, brother to that slut Sheila H who stole my man in fifth grade, had it bad for me. And I him. Especially after one night at the park when he was finished playing basketball and he asked me if he could walk me home. I was so excited! We took a detour and ended up in a gangway where I let him put his warm hand under my shirt and under my bra. The power of bringing that moan of pleasure was almost more than I could bear. I was so sad when he graduated later that year and moved on to high school.

There were the Spin the Bottle games in my best friend's basement. Post Office at Greg L's house, Truth or Dare games at the park. Once I was in eighth grade, I had no use for the boys in my grade. Luckily, I have a brother that's a year younger than me. I tapped into that resource and "dated" a few of his friends. Yep, boys got me through Catholic grammar school. And all the while, I was being the best I could be in all of my classes. Straight A student, art classes at the Art Institute, my first job, babysitting for cash as often as I could, and for my mom and dad when they needed me. Always striving to be the best and succeeding except in my feelings for myself. Catholic school days. The beginning of the end of my self esteem in my personal life. The start of my atheist beliefs.