9-minute read time.
I want to write a book. At least, I think I do. I think that the topic of this blog deserves to be published. I don’t care so much that it is me writing it (that’s not to say I don’t take pride in my work), but I think writing a book from the perspective of the children of hoarders is important. Of course, other books are out there, and I plan to read as many as possible. I just ordered Dirty Little Secrets by C.J. Omololu and Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things by Gail Steketee and Randy Frost, both of which I will review on this blog when the time comes. Ironically, at the end of October, I emailed Dr. Steketee and Dr. Frost, asking them to participate in an interview with me. Dr. Steketee sent a prompt response from her iPad, explaining that she retired and has stopped giving interviews because she no longer has access to current data on hoarding behavior. Thankfully, she was able to pass along the emails of other researchers in the field, with whom I am either currently in contact or attempting to get in contact. Unfortunately, Dr. Frost, who is still very active in the field, could not align his schedule with mine. I plan to reach out again sometime in the near future.
Back to the topic at hand.
I want to write a book.
In one of my classes, I recently read an invaluable source from the author Jane Friedman. Friedman, with her twenty-five-plus years in the book publishing industry, gave some advice on preparing to write a nonfiction book:
“The most common problem leading to rejection: no author platform,” said Friedman.
She then explains that an agent or editor will want to know all the statistics and analytics of my online presence, including this website, my social media accounts, writing gigs, podcasts, and videos. They’ll also want to know about my speaking engagements, events, classes, city presence, professional organization leadership roles, and memberships. They’ll want to know if I can contact influencers or thought leaders. They’ll want to see if I have written previous books or self-published in the past.
Let’s go through the annoying technicalities. I am a developing writer. I am still in school, learning to write and crafting my skills and presence. My name isn’t out there. My Instagram account has 113 followers, and my Facebook account, which has the wrong name attached to it due to privacy concerns, has 170 friends. My LinkedIn is updated and official, but I don’t know how many clicks it gets. My TikTok has 122 followers. According to my analytics plugin, this blog has had 27 visitors (all of whom I am immensely thankful for and appreciative of!!). These facts, all of which point to a horrible online presence, don’t compare to the bigger problem.
I could start promoting this blog everywhere. I could reach out to official sites and publications, promote it all over my social media, create a TikTok account, and commit to posting educational and testimony-based short videos daily. If I were brave enough, pursuing the spread of this blog would work. It could reach all corners of the world and be seen by all eyes.
But there is one set of eyes I don’t want to capture. My bigger problem is this: I love my mom.
I am terrified that if my mom sees my work, I will permanently fracture my relationship with my mom.
My mom is loving, caring, and generous. She cares more about the people around her than she does about herself. She is funny, sassy, and sarcastic. She turns bright red when she laughs, which is often, wheezing and coughing until she can hold back her cackles. She loves animals and takes care of our pets with a dedication like no other. She devotes herself to maintaining the community fridges around our city, feeding the homeless population and those in need. She is educated and intelligent, with a Bachelor’s degree in psychology and a Master’s degree in Community and Global Health. She has astute common sense and can pick up on slight changes in behavior with those she is conversing with. She’s an empath. She has a warm, comforting presence and loves giving and getting hugs and physical affection. She is my best friend and loves spending time with me. We watch movies, go mini-golfing and bowling, try new restaurants, and revisit familiar favorites. She always gives me meals she and her girlfriend prepare, pays for my lunches, and drops off food at work. When I lived with her, a large percentage of her hoarding was acquiring things she thought my brother or I would like. Or others in our community would like.
But she is a level four hoarder, which has changed my life for the foreseeable future and will continue to change my life once she gets older and needs more help. I try to separate my mom from her diagnosis. She is not what she owns. She is not what she acquires. She is not just a hoarder, but because of her condition, I carry a type of trauma with me that so few understand, which is why interviewing fellow children of hoarders is relieving. It’s nice talking to someone who understands.
I’m worried because she holds grudges like no other.
Around this exact time last year, our house burned down. The day that the house burned down was a few days after Thanksgiving. That day, my mother, my grandpa, and I all had initially planned to visit my aunt (my mother’s older sister), my two cousins, and my cousin’s young daughter for a belated Thanksgiving celebration. My mother asked my aunt if she could bring her at-the-time relatively new girlfriend to the celebration. My aunt denied the request, explaining that she was already stressed about cooking dinner, entertaining her 4-year-old granddaughter, and preparing the house for my grandfather’s arrival. As she explained, our grandpa doesn’t get the opportunity to visit often because he lives a distance away, and she was stressing about cleaning the house and cooking the food for the first time at that home. My aunt didn’t want that stressful occasion to be the first time she met my mother’s new partner, but she still asked for there to be a follow-up visit and a proper introduction.
My mom took this rejection to heart, pledging not to go to the event, infuriated that she could not bring her partner. Well, to everyone’s surprise, the house burned down that morning, and the celebration barely happened. The holiday cheer burst into flames as quickly as my old house did. I was in and out, visiting the burning and smoldering remains of the house and only returning when my family suggested I eat something to feel better. My grandpa still went to the event, ate food, and supported us from the background, calling me and my mom to ensure we were okay. My aunt, still feeling the tension of the fight, decided not to reach out to my mom. Instead, she dedicated herself to making her home as welcoming as possible for me to go back to and my grandpa to stay at. She still served the food, attempting to bring normalcy to a chaotic and tragic day.
Since then, my mom has been mad at her. They don’t speak anymore. It’s been over a year. Their relationship has always been rocky, but this was the breaking point. She’s partly mad because she couldn’t bring her partner to the dinner, but when asked, she says she is primarily mad that her sister didn’t reach out to her the day that the house burned down. I tried explaining why, because my aunt was scared that she was still mad about the Thanksgiving rejection, but she didn’t want to hear it each time. Her girlfriend has even insisted that they rekindle their relationship for the sake of their dad at the minimum, explaining that she didn’t take offense to the initial rejection. I live with my aunt now, renting a room in her house, and since I moved in back in May, she has never visited my space. I wish she could. She used to visit my dorm in college, and I miss her being able to come into my home.
That’s what scares me. If my mother could hold a grudge for that long because my aunt simply didn’t send a text, what would she do if she found my writing? What will she feel? Will our relationship be able to recover? Will she ever speak to me again? My mother used to despise even being called a hoarder, so what will happen when she finds out I have committed myself to writing about it, and thus her?
I don’t want to lose my mom, but I feel that it’s my right to speak about my childhood. My writing is full of nothing but good intentions. I don’t want to bash my mother. I don’t want to blame my mother. I want to educate, communicate, and share my experiences. But it’s hard to write about mental health without connecting the condition to the person who has it. And, of course, alongside that, there is no way to write about hoarding without talking about the hoarder. The behaviors that hoarders often participate in are embarrassing, and I wonder if her trust in me would snap if she found out I write about them.
My fears resonate with other people, too. Fellow children of hoarders, people I have interviewed, have come to me openly, but with the one request that I respect their privacy because they don’t want their family member/s to find out. Others I have requested interviews from refuse because they don’t feel brave or comfortable enough to discuss it. I get it, I do, so I happily oblige or understand.
I think my hesitancy speaks to the lack of public communication and awareness about hoarding disorder. Hoarders are ashamed of their condition, and their family members are scared to talk about it for fear of being ostracized by their relatives, making them angry or upset, or losing their homes. Hoarders harbor a lot of feelings about their behaviors and can explode if pushed to. I don’t want my mom to explode. I don’t want my mom to be sad or feel betrayed.
I want my writing to reach a wider audience. But I fear that with popularity comes a higher chance my mother will see this, and I will lose her.
