ALL I HOARD

by K Jesel

My parents were hoarders, but six-year-old me didn't know it

yet. I knew we had a bunch of stuff, like craft stuff and tools and

toys and pets. I knew not to go into the extra bedroom by myself

because the stacks of stuff could fall on me. I knew not to walk

barefoot in the house, because all the stuff on the floor made it

hard to sweep. But I knew we needed all of it, or we would need

it. I knew that because my parents told me. They told me we kept

things for rainy days and bought a lot of something when it was

on sale because we were poor. We didn’t have enough room for

all of it, but this was what we had to do because of money. Like

when my mom bought twelve two-liter bottles of Dr. Pepper

because she had a coupon. She was really happy with that.

Because saving money was good. My parents were always good,

always right. They always knew best. They were never wrong,

and they would never lie to me.

My parents were hoarders, so I could only have friends over

on my birthday. And it was a big deal. My birthday was during

the summer. The weeks preceding it when I wanted to play

video games or read were instead spent cleaning. My mom was

the Queen of Clean in my mind. If something was dirty, she

knew how to make it shine again. Which is why I was confused

that cleaning for my birthday was always so stressful for her, and

therefore for Dad and me, too. This was when I learned the

difference between “dirty” and “cluttered,” even though both

were understatements for our house. “Maybe if I ever had some

damn help around here,” she'd say. We’d just stand around

waiting for her to tell us what to do. I was ten (and eleven, and

twelve), she said I was old enough to know how to clean, so I

tried. But it was wrong, or I was in her way, or I didn't know the

right place for something (most things didn't have a right place),

so I’d get yelled at. I'd cry, go to my room, get yelled at more for

still not helping, because we were cleaning for me, this was my

birthday. No matter how hard we worked, no matter how early

we started, the day before the party was always spent just

shoving things into trash bags, clean or dirty. From the kitchen

counters, the kitchen floor, laundry, groceries, dishes, pet stuff,

literal trash… all in bags. Then the bags were piled into their

bedroom and mine. And when my friends finally came over and

saw the house the cleanest anyone ever would, I had to tell them

they couldn't go into my room.

“Why not?”

“It's cluttered.”

My parents were hoarders, of animals, too, not just objects.

When I was a teenager, we had thirteen dogs, three cats, and a

parrot. A couple of them were intentional, but most had been

strays. We all loved animals, though you couldn't tell by their

condition. They were well-fed, sure, but baths and regular vet

visits were almost unheard of. Dirt would fly off them when

they’d shake. I was fourteen or so when the fleas came. Looking

back, it's a miracle we didn't get them sooner. They were in the

sand outside the house, Mom said. The dogs and cats scratched

endlessly. A dog rolled over for belly rubs and we'd see their skin

crawling. They'd come up to us for affection and more often than

not, we’d heartlessly pet them with our knuckles or a foot,

because petting them with an open palm would cake our skin in

dirt and flea poop. They started getting bald spots from

scratching so much. They bled.

Before long, we humans got them too. We weren't infested.

At least, our bodies weren't. They weren't crawling through our

hair like lice, but they were in our furniture, our floor, our beds,

our clothes. Sitting down for dinner was guaranteed to be

painful. They’d crawl out of the couch and bite us. We got so

used to it that when one of us got bitten, we grabbed it and

squished it on the table right next to our food. Fleas don't squish

like most bugs. They're tiny and have tough bodies, so you have

to crush them with something hard, like a fingernail. Then go

back to eating. Don’t bother washing your hands; you’ll just have

to do it again in a few minutes. They got us throughout the

night, too. I'd wake up with a line of bites around my waistband

and scattered all over my legs. I looked like I had chicken pox. I

stopped wearing shorts to school.

But this was normal for us. We adapted. We lived with it. It

wasn't preferable, but there was no changing it, according to my

parents. It was just because we had so many animals, and we had

so many animals because we loved animals. This was a small

price to pay to give all these animals a loving home, right?

Everyone else just didn't have such kind hearts, like we did. This

was our cross to bear.

My parents were hoarders, and in my teen years, I started to

wonder if we could get on TV. Not for the sake of being on TV,

I just wanted the cleaning help I saw on Hoarders. And maybe

my parents could benefit from the mental health professionals,

though I doubted they’d give them the time of day. Funny

enough, Mom and I loved that show. She always said watching it

made her feel better about our house. To her credit, it wasn't

quite as bad as some of those, but we could’ve been in the

running at the very least. After saying her line, she'd look at me

expectantly. “Of course... What do you mean? Our place is super

clean... Nothing like that... You do a great job,” any combination

of these was the right answer. As I got older and slowly started to

see the problem, I became less eager to validate her. My

responses devolved into short little dismissals, but I never got the

courage to tell her the truth she was desperately running from.

My parents were hoarders, so they missed my wedding. I’d

been moved out for a few years. When I told my mom it would

be in the state my fiancé and I lived in, not her and Dad’s state,

she said, “Well I just can’t guarantee anything more than three

hours from our house.” Because of the dogs’ potty schedule. So I

offered to pay for a pet sitter. I figured the issue was money,

because the issue was always money. But no, not this time. She

said she didn’t want anyone in the house. That was when I

stopped asking questions. I knew why she didn’t want that. It was

the same reason she wouldn’t let me come in when I visited

anymore. As bad as it had been before, this told me it’d gotten

worse. She knew if any sane person saw the house, saw the

animals, there’d be trouble. Animal control, Adult Protective

Services, cops probably.

Seven months later, I got married on a beach seventeen hours

away from my parents. My in-laws, who lived in the same exact

city as my parents, made it happen. My husband’s mother gave

me my “something blue.” His dad offered to walk me down the

(sand) aisle. It was the happiest day of my life, because of who

was there, and who wasn’t.

My parents were hoarders, and although my dad is now dead

and I live 1,600 miles from my mom, I still live with their hoard

every day. I can't stand messes not getting cleaned up

immediately. I can't stand things on the counter. I can't stand my

house looking lived in. I can't stand the thought of buying

something without already knowing exactly where it's going to

go. I can’t stand every speck of dirt on my dog looking like a flea

in my eyes. I can’t stand the guilt of having abandoned the

animals to their fate when I moved out of my parents’ house. I

can’t stand my mom calling me crying to tell me another

childhood dog died, and I can’t stand not having the guts to say,

“No shit,” back to her. I can't stand that I started therapy because I

got raped in college, only to talk about my parents more than

anything else.

My parents were hoarders. But all I hoard is resentment.