The front door opened halfway before hitting stacked bags. To enter, you had to push sideways and step through a narrow gap. From outside, the house looked normal. The windows were intact. The yard was maintained. Neighbors never complained.
Inside, movement required planning.
Rooms were filled with boxes, loose bags, broken appliances, old clothes, papers, and containers. Nothing had a category. Nothing had an endpoint. Items were placed wherever there was space left.
I stopped inviting people over before I was ten. I didn’t explain. I just said no.
The moment I understood this wasn’t just “mess” happened when I was sixteen and admitted to a PEDIATRIC UNIT after weeks of declining daily functioning, repeated school absences, panic episodes, and severe self-neglect linked directly to my living environment.
During discharge planning, staff asked about my home.
After reviewing photos and hearing descriptions, they said RETURNING THERE WAS NOT SAFE.
The belief in our house was that the situation was MANAGEABLE.
Cleaning was always postponed. Repairs were delayed indefinitely. Sorting was discussed but never started. Every attempt ended with items being placed into new piles.
My parents did not argue about this. They reinforced each other.
If I suggested throwing something away, my mom insisted it held emotional value. If I pressed further, my dad argued it might be needed later. When both adults agree, a child has no leverage.
Broken objects stayed. Leaks were contained with buckets. Rooms became unusable and were quietly abandoned.
No one used the word HOARDING.
The amount of stored items increased sharply after my granny passed.
Belongings from the granny’s house were brought into our house in boxes. The boxes were stacked and never opened. My mom refused to sort them. She said touching them felt like another loss.
After that, accumulation accelerated.
Mail went unopened. Grocery bags stayed full. Broken furniture leaned against walls instead of being removed. Empty containers were washed and stacked.
When eviction risk arose due to the condition of the house, my parents rearranged items instead of discarding them. Storage bins were purchased. The bins were filled and stacked, blocking access to walls, outlets, and vents.
Nothing left the house.
I began taking photos on my phone because the environment stopped registering emotionally. I needed proof for myself.
I noticed I deleted those photos automatically. I did not want evidence on my device.
Both of my parents contributed equally.
My mom treated objects as extensions of people. Discarding them caused visible distress. She avoided sorting because it triggered panic and crying.
My dad treated objects as insurance. He believed resources could disappear overnight. He resisted discarding anything that could theoretically be reused or repaired.
Together, they created a closed system.
I tracked specifics:
Rooms blocked by stored items
Repairs discussed but never completed
Money spent on containers instead of maintenance
The bathroom sink leaked for years. Buckets were placed underneath. Water spilled onto the floor regularly. Mold developed near the wall.
The ceiling above my bedroom leaked. The carpet stayed damp. Mold spots appeared. Repair was postponed because accessing the source required moving stacks that no one allowed to be touched.
I slept surrounded by stored items. Sometimes boxes were stacked on my bed. On those nights, I slept on the floor.
I was told not to talk about the house. I was told people would judge. I was told involvement from outsiders could lead to consequences.
Keeping the situation hidden became my responsibility.
My hygiene declined. Showering required moving objects. I avoided it. I wore the same clothes repeatedly. Teachers noticed changes and assumed laziness.
At sixteen, my mental health deteriorated.
I experienced panic attacks at school, inability to concentrate, chronic exhaustion, and stopped caring for myself. I was admitted to inpatient care after missing multiple weeks of school and expressing inability to function at home.
During discharge planning, staff evaluated my living environment.
They said the home was UNSANITARY, UNSAFE, AND NOT SUITABLE FOR A MINOR.
My parents rented another house so I could be released. This required paying rent and a mortgage simultaneously. Savings were pooled. External financial help was used.
The original house remained unchanged.
Living in the rented home made the contrast immediate.
I could walk freely. I could sit at a table. I could shower without moving items first. I could locate my belongings.
I presented my parents with notes and photos documenting blocked rooms, leaks, mold, and abandoned repairs.
My dad said discarding items still felt dangerous.
My mom said sorting triggered panic.
Neither agreed to professional treatment.
Extended family advised me to stop pushing. They emphasized intentions over outcomes. They discouraged further discussion.
I stopped arguing because arguments produced no change.
I now live independently. My home has clear floors, working plumbing, and functioning heating. Broken items are removed. Repairs are handled promptly. I monitor accumulation closely because it feels familiar. I intervene early.
My parents acknowledge the house was unsafe. They still keep everything. No treatment has begun. Sometimes doubt appears.
Then I remember medical professionals refusing to send me home. If a living environment contributes directly to a child’s mental collapse, and two adults refuse to change it, who carries responsibility for naming the harm? I don’t have an answer yet.
