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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.

Before the Beginning

All of these shitty habits had to start somewhere. My therapist has asked several questions about my background, my family, my upbringing. I'm not sure if that gives her any of the answers that she's looking for.

I can tell her outright that this is not a problem that I personally had when I was growing up. I was kind of a minimalist when I was a teenager, thanks in part to going to a Catholic high school where I was forced to wear a uniform. Saved on lots of clothes issues! I did, however, collect socks. We were allowed to wear really funky (if we wanted to...and I did) socks with our heather colored skirts and white shirts. Funny thing, those socks. I was sorting through a box in my bedroom yesterday ( it has been sitting in my room for three years) and found quite a few pairs of my socks (circa 1974-1975). My girls thought they were a riot! Can you hoard socks?

But I want to go back and sort through all of this. Maybe by telling my story, I will figure out what the hell happened along the way and I can stop paying someone $165 to talk to me for 45 minutes a week.

Let's start with the family. I am the eldest of nine siblings. We didn't have a chance to hoard. There wasn't ever really enough money for essentials, never mind extravagances. I do remember one stuffed animal that I had that I kept hidden in the closet so that none of my sibs could get at it. I also remember flying completely off the handle when my sister, who is three years younger than me, would "borrow" my clothes without asking. I especially loved when she would take one of my bras. I was a solid 34C, she was maybe a 32AA. Nope, we didn't have much. We still like to say that we grew up on love.

But wait! Could that be one of my problems? I didn't have the things that I really wanted so I've tried making up for that in the past 20 years of my life? It could not be less of the truth and certainly not as simple as that. I had no idea how poor we were until much later in my life.

I started "working" when I was 11-years-old. I started babysitting for cash and was always willing to give up time with my friends for the cash. When I was fourteen during my eighth grade year, I worked as a server (we were called waitresses then!) at a little restaurant behind my Catholic grammar school. When I graduated from eighth grade, I worked full time that summer at the rectory where the priests lived. It was awesome! I had never seen so much money all at once. I was making $140/week minus taxes and thought I was rich! Why am I including these work facts? Because once I was making money for myself, I started to shop.

Let's go back a minute to the babysitting. I have to say that I had a few clients that were a little "sleazy". Well, the dads were. But I kept at it because I had discovered the joys of 45's. For those of you unfamiliar, we used to have these huge, round things called turntables where you could play a "record". The records were either 45's (about 6" across) or 33's which were probably 12" across. But yeah, I found out about 45's and I would happily take some of my earnings every couple of weeks and buy records. They were my most prized possessions. And then, two weeks before my 13th birthday, our house was gutted by a fire. You know what the first thing I noticed when we were allowed to go into the house the next day? My pile of 45's that was stacked up on my mom's stereo cabinet had melted down from a pile of probably 16" tall to a flat, black mess that was completely unrecognizable.

I'm stopping again. I'm sure some therapist out there would say that the trauma of having worked hard (and with sleazy dads...gross) would certainly point me in the direction of hoarding. But not yet. I, and my brother that is a year younger than me, decided to sell "tours" of the burned out wreckage of our house. And eventually, we would sell tours of the re-build. We got tons of kids to give us money to go into the house and look around. And I kept babysitting. And I started my collection over. I still have a bushel basket full of 45's in my basement.

Would someone really expect me to give those up? The hard work, the entrepreneurial spirit, the shear joy of being able to do that for myself? Yep, it's what they expect of me.

Next time: How I Survived Catholic School

The Beginning

Okay, maybe I'm not a "super" hoarder. I mean, I don't think I'd qualify for any of those shows on TV. Of course, I know plenty of people in my family would disagree, but that's them, I'm me, and we don't see eye-to-eye on a lot of things.

So what is a hoarder? A lot of us look at people that have huge collections of things and call them hoarders. Other people may look at the state of someone's home, at all of the things that are strewn all over the place and call them hoarders. There are people that "collect" animals, newspapers, clothes and shoes, food, toys; you name it, there are people that will collect it. Does that make them hoarders? I have no answer.

I will say this. I do hoard. I hoard stuff...baskets, books, toys, old t-shirts, mementos, furniture, just stuff. But I think that there is so much more to it than that. I hoard memories. I hoard hair (I refuse to get a haircut). I hoard debt. And I hoard emotions. I guess I am a super hoarder and I want to share a little insight into where it all comes from.

So if you've come here looking for answers, maybe you'll find a few. If you've come here to get some help, well, maybe you'll get that, too. If you've come here because we are kindred spirits and somehow reading what I have to say will lend a bit of normalcy to your life, cool. Read on. Or maybe you're hoping that I'll post lists of things that I will be cleaning out of my life. That is a definite possibility! Whatever the reason you are here, welcome. I am starting a personal journey. If you'd like to tag along, you are welcome to do so. It may be a long and arduous journey, but if you are here to take it with me, it should make it a little easier. For both of us.