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.