So months ago I noticed I could smell that the house was smelling bad, mainly when my mom was bringing my grandpa’s puppy over and I think she was peeing all over the carpets my mom has scattered all over our tile floor. So I was no longer getting used to the smell of the house and now I can distinctly notice it.

However, I have recently noticed it on my clothes, my shoes, and my belongings in my bedroom. I had to throw away most of my sneakers and sandals because the smell was so strong. I literally only have crocs, 3 sandals, and 1 pair of sneakers left. All of my nice shoes I spent good money on are ruined. I’ve used a spray bottle with vinegar on my sneakers before but it never got out that tough hoarder house smell out. I can’t keep all of my stuff in my car. I have a compact SUV, so I can only keep so much. I’ve been keeping my stuff in trash bags but I don’t know if that’ll hold for long.

I did recently put an air purifier in my room and it runs 24/7 so it’s gotten the smell out of the air in my room, but it’s still on my stuff. Do any of you have tips to how I can prevent odors from clinging onto my stuff? Do I keep my things in trash bags? Will plastic storage bins work? Are there any other storage like bins I could get? My room has basically turned into a storage unit at this point, it doesn’t even look like a bedroom. But if it keeps my belongings protected until I move out it’ll have to suffice

Very much a child of a harder who is constantly policing my own hoarder tendencies. I’ve done my best to clean, organize, tidy, etc. I have ADHD and definitely suffer from executive dysfunction but I do my best when I can and have the energy to focus on the demanding upkeep of a clean home.

However, as an American these recent government changes and actions have OBLITERATED any solid mental standing I’ve previously had.

I have just been absolutely spiraling, frozen in paralysis, and continue to do nothing but doom scroll and disassociate.

So the house has become a bit messier and it’s stressing me out even more. I can’t break free of focusing on the negatives and I’m just sitting here like “fuckkkkkkk I’m just like my mom.” and it’s killing me inside.

I’m just seeking some community, support, commiseration, any kind of help or suggestions.

I started some de-cluttering before this and now the stuff is just sitting there taunting me how I haven’t donated it yet. Ugh!

Did anyone hear about the fire that happened in a hoarder house Monday in Albany, NY? 3 people died and the whole thing is just so sad. Reports say the fire started on the porch and just spread through the house so fast.

https://www.timesunion.com/news/article/lynne-lyons-katelyn-ryan-timothy-ryan-killed-20063236.php

adding link to article that mentions the house was hoarded.

https://www.wktv.com/news/local/9-lives-lost-in-2-separate-house-fires-across-new-york-state/article_8114fb2a-de5b-11ef-9936-633a0f853980.html

The Colonie fire chief reported that the house contained a mix of household items, including boxes, papers and food, and described the situation as having "heavy hoarding conditions."

Not the financial cost. But the potential life altering cost. My elderly parents called me this morning (they live 14 hours away). They could not get a hold of my younger sister who lives about 45 minutes away. My dad was having leg pain & couldn’t walk. I told them if it’s truly an emergency they need to call 911. They refused. The reason I’m sure is that they do not want anyone in their house. My sister was able to come over & take dad to the hospital. What is going to happen if it’s a true emergency or they can’t reach her for hours?

They are adamant about not wanting to go into assisted living. A compromise could be to have a home healthcare nurse check them. But they won’t let anyone in their house.

Also, my sister said it was so embarrassing. Dad’s clothes were filthy, esp his socks. He told my sister he hadn’t changed them in a month.

My home got burglarized. My mom and I have been trying to recover from years of hoarding. We had some help by some friends and a thief who we did not know took advantage of the situation and broke into my home and stole god knows how many valuable items. I just don’t know if I should make a police report because it would be hard to prove A. What was lost B. That it was broken into. C. The last thing I’d want is the house condemned because the authorities care more about that than anything else. My friends told me to make a police report but I’m just so scared and traumatized that I’m not sure what to do. So please if anyone can help I’d appreciate it.

Hey guys.

I need to share my experience - I really didn’t know such a community existed online . I relate to so many of you.

Firstly , SO proud of my mother who let go of hundreds of things and allowed us to renovate our home . It was very hard for her , and although some of what I will say is unflattering, she really saw the light and prioritized happiness. We have essentially the home I always dreamed of, and that she deserves.

I grew up in a chaotic and disorganized home with constant boxes , clothes , bags of garbage everywhere . My mom has a shopping addiction+ depression which destroys her motivation to clean. I remember trying to take control of the house as young as 8 years old because my mother would not do it/ could not cope with it. I have always shouldered the burden of our house/ been the one trying to renovate, clean , organize . The fights and tears and tragedy that have occurred over throwing out something or asking if we can replace our destroyed furniture has been insane .

I have become what my deceased father was to my mother - the one doing all cleaning / laundry/ housekeeping / de-cluttering.

Our home is recently renovated - decluttered and now what I can call “ normal “ and I basically work every day tirelessly to keep it that way or clean her literal messes. Mom tries but realistically she can load a dishwasher before she’s fatigued . That’s fine. I accept that she will never be able to maintain her home and will worry in a few years when she’s older.

We had the exterminator this weekend to do some carpet beetles spraying in our closets. Pretty normal stuff - but that involved me organizing and emptying my mothers closets and allowing guests into the home without it being ‘ in order’

I can’t handle the shame of people seeing my home not staged and ready for them. My mom has NO shame and would call repairmen to fix things with the hallways lined with boxes and clothes everywhere . “ I don’t care I’m paying them” is her attitude. How can you have work done in a home that’s not accessible?!

Although our home is basically 100% done and minor repairs need to be done like refinishing our floors- having the exterminator come and having to have them see all of our possessions in the halls and not neatly packed triggered BAD anxiety in me. I could not be present for it. Although it was purposeful mess and contained - it messes with me SO bad.

I saw that some of you call this ‘ doorbell’ anxiety. I am overtaken with fear when the door rings and feel like I need to flee. The prospect of guests scares me so badly , even though the house has remained beautiful and clean over a year now. It feels funny to still be fearful, but it happens.

I feel like the scars and years of judgement have destroyed my psyche a little.

My wife, and her entire family, are horders. I mean for one person (my wife) she could supply a family of 100 worth of stuff. Anyway, we are moving soon, which means we will have access to go through all her clothes, junk, and things.

What is one rule you use when going through your Hoarders stuff, for instance, if it hasn't moved in a year, toss it?

TIA

Edit: Title should say *Hoarder*

A friend of mine and I talked about how I never invite them over.Last time they saw how messy my house is.Last time they saw the piles and piles of boxes,I only let them in the kitchen and main hall.I said it’s not their fault I don’t let them in and it’s a me thing,not a they thing,their response was „yea,it’s a HUGE your thing“.They continued to poke jabs about how they’ll be like 76 and never see my house and how they would slap me if that hit me (it was a joke,swear to gas it’s funnier in context).I can’t stop crying about it.I can’t even clean my own room.The whole house is a mess.I need to fix everything.It’s too much.I can’t do it.I’m just 15.I’m trying to fix it but I can’t.I wanna be a normal kid.Do any of you guys relate?What do I do?I haven’t been able to stop crying about this for the last 3 hours or so.

I’ve noticed my HP over gifts for everything with money she doesn’t have. Anyone else in the same boat? We went to visit my aunt who has dementia in the hospital today and instead of just a card she buys a $30 plant and a $8 balloon and a card. Meanwhile her house is absolutely packed with worthless junk and she doesn’t have any savings at all. The wasting of money is driving me nuts.

Content Warning / Trigger Warning: This letter contains references to:

• Childhood trauma and neglect
• Emotional abuse
• Family dysfunction
• Hoarding environment
• Child having to parent themselves
• Family prioritizing possessions over children
• School bullying mentions
• Physical neglect (hygiene, basic needs)
• System failures
• Effects of poverty/neglect on social status

This is a love letter to a wounded inner child. While it aims to be healing, it discusses painful experiences. Please take care of yourself while reading and know it's okay to step away if needed.

Dear Little One,

I wish I could wrap you in the warmest, cleanest blanket right now. I see you trying to make yourself smaller in that crowded room, trying to be good enough, quiet enough, invisible enough. I see you washing your clothes in cold water, hoping that maybe this time the stains will come out. I see you flinching when kids move away from you at lunch, carrying shame that was never yours to bear.

You deserve so much better than this. You deserve hot water. You deserve clean clothes. You deserve to take up space in your own home. You deserve to eat without fear of fire, to sleep without fear of bugs, to breathe without fear of mold. You deserve to have friends over, to be a child, to exist without constant apology.

Those kids who treat you like you're contaminated? They're wrong. Those teachers who hand you clean clothes but don't ask why you need them? They're failing you. The system that stays silent? It's wrong, not you. You are not dirty. You are not a problem to be solved. You are not the chaos around you.

I know you're carrying so much. The weight of keeping your sisters safe. The burden of secrets too heavy for small shoulders. The exhaustion of being your own parent when yours can't see past their stuff. It's not fair. None of this is fair.

When they threaten you with CPS in one breath and warn you to keep secrets in the next, remember: their contradictions are not your fault. When relatives lecture you about cleaning but never offer real help, remember: their failure to act is not your shame to carry.

You are so strong, but you shouldn't have to be. You are so responsible, but you shouldn't have to be. You are surviving, but you deserve to be living.

I want you to know:

• Your need for space is valid
• Your anger is justified
• Your pain matters
• Your dreams count
• Your existence is worthy

You are not the broken thing they're hiding. You are not the mess they can't clean. You are not the problem they pretend you are.

You are a child deserving of love, of protection, of basic dignity. You are worthy of hot water and clean clothes and safe food and kind words. You are worthy of adults who act like adults, of systems that protect instead of threaten, of a home that holds you instead of suffocating you.

One day, you'll have space of your own. One day, you'll understand that none of this was your fault. One day, you'll know what it feels like to invite people over without fear, to wear clothes that fit, to breathe air that doesn't hurt.

Until then, please know: You are seen. You are loved. You matter. Not despite the chaos, but completely independent of it. You are not what was done to you. You are not what was taken from you. You are not what they failed to give you.

Most of all, you deserve a family that chooses you over things. You deserve parents who see you as more valuable than their possessions, who make space for you instead of stuff, who treasure your growth more than their garbage. You deserve to be the priority. You deserve to be chosen first, to be protected, to be valued more than any object they're holding onto.

A family should cherish their children, not their clutter. They should fight to keep you safe, not to keep broken things. You deserve parents who would empty every room if it meant giving you space to thrive, who would choose your wellbeing over their wants, who would put your needs before their need to hold onto things.

You are not less important than their possessions. You are not worth less than their stuff. You are a child who deserves to be treasured, protected, and chosen - every single day, in every single way, above everything else.

You are enough, exactly as you are. And you deserve a family that sees that, believes that, and acts like it.

With all the love and protection you should have had,

Your Future Self

Content Warning / Trigger Warning:

This post contains descriptions of:

• Childhood trauma and neglect
• Severe bullying and social isolation
• Unsafe living conditions
• Hoarding environment
• Physical neglect (hygiene, food insecurity)
• System failures and institutional betrayal
• Reference to sexual abuse (no details)
• Family manipulation and emotional abuse
• Physical hazards (fire risks, insects,mold)
• Mental health impacts
• Family separation threats

Please take care of yourself while reading. It's okay to step away if needed.

This is my story of growing up in a hoarding home, but it's more than just about the clutter. It's about how multiple systems failed to protect a child who was clearly struggling. I'll be sharing:

Living Conditions: I'll describe the physical reality of living in a hoarding environment - the unsafe conditions, the lack of basic necessities, and the daily challenges of surviving in a house that fought against being lived in.

School Experience: The bullying was relentless and public. I'll share how the visible signs of my home life made me a target, and how the very teachers who handed me clean clothes turned a blind eye to my torment.

The Double Bind: I'll explain the impossible situation of being threatened with family separation if anyone found out about our home, while simultaneously being threatened with CPS as punishment. How my mom's active presence in the PTA created a perfect cover that made it even harder to get help.

System Failures: When I finally did try to report abuse, the system's response only reinforced every fear about speaking up. I'll describe how my truth got lost in a game of telephone, with life-changing decisions being made without anyone ever speaking to me directly.

This isn't an easy story to tell or to read. It's about neglect that was visible but ignored, about adults who chose the easiest solutions over the right ones, and about a child trying to navigate impossible situations alone. But it's also about breaking the silence that protects these systems of failure.

I'm sharing this now after much therapy and processing, hoping it might help others recognize similar patterns or feel less alone in their experiences.

The Smell of Memories That Won't Wash Away

The stench was a living thing. It crept from the piles of unwashed laundry, each one a testament to memories I desperately wanted to forget. But the worst part wasn't the smell itself - it was knowing that these clothes, these remnants of memories I desperately wanted to forget, would never leave. They were preserved like twisted time capsules, protected by my parents' fear of losing even the most painful pieces of the past.

The irony was suffocating: their desperate grip on these physical memories was creating new memories I would spend a lifetime trying to escape. Each moldering pile of clothing wasn't just fabric anymore - it was an archive of shame, permanently stained with the evidence of a childhood I wished I could erase.

What they saw as preserving childhood memories, I experienced as being forced to live inside a museum of trauma. Every unwashed shirt, every stained piece of cloth, every moldering pile - they weren't preserving happy memories. They were holding me hostage to moments I desperately needed to leave behind.

The smell followed me everywhere - to school, to the few places I was allowed to go, into my dreams. It became a part of my identity I never asked for, never wanted. While they feared losing memories, I feared making new ones. Each pile of unwashed laundry was a testament to their inability to let go, and my inability to escape.

The Last Space Lost

In a house of chaos, a child's bedroom should be a sanctuary. Mine was just another battlefield in my parents' war against empty space. Even shared with two sisters, it was supposed to be ours - the one place we could exist as ourselves. But their things were like an invasion force, crawling across invisible boundaries, claiming every inch of our territory until we were pushed into smaller and smaller corners of our own room.

The cruel joke came in the form of orders to "clean your room." How do you clean what isn't your mess? How do you organize the unorganizable? Their clutter became our responsibility, their inability to let go became our failure. Standing in the middle of their overflow, I would feel paralyzed - every attempt to create order was like trying to empty an ocean with a teaspoon. And then came the scolding, the blame, as if we had somehow created this tsunami of stuff that had washed into our space.

The roaches made sure I couldn't have friends even if I'd been brave enough to try. They would crawl out of my belongings at school, little ambassadors of shame announcing my secret to everyone. Each one that skittered across my desk was another friendship that would never happen, another door closing before it could open.

Hunger became a constant companion. The kitchen, like everything else, was too far gone - overtaken by their hoarding until cooking became a dangerous game. I still remember the fires I started just trying to make food in a kitchen that was more hazard than home. The choice became stark: risk the flames or stay hungry. We ate out when we could, but mostly I just learned to ignore the gnawing in my stomach. My weight fluctuated wildly - feast or famine, no in-between, my body keeping physical score of the chaos.

Living With Labels

The bullying was relentless and theatrical. Kids can be cruel, but they perfect their cruelty when they have a visible target. They turned my name into a game - "germs!" they'd shout, touching me and my belongings passing along my imagined contamination like a twisted version of tag. When I was chosen to pass out homework, the dramatic performances would begin - shrieks of exaggerated agony, as if my touch would poison the papers I handed them.

The lunchroom became a stage for their daily rejection - entire tables of students would stand up and leave when I sat down, making sure I knew my presence was enough to spoil their appetite. They'd hold their noses, refuse to touch anything I'd touched, treat me like a walking biohazard. Each performance was choreographed to maximize my humiliation, each gesture a reminder that I couldn't escape my home situation, even at school. The isolation was complete - I was untouchable, unwanted, unsafe everywhere.

Being called to the principal's office, my heart pounding with each step. Not for misbehavior, but because they could smell me coming. The gentle, pitying looks as they handed me clothes that weren't mine, deodorant, soap - basic necessities that should have come from home but didn't. The scratchy feel of ill-fitting donated clothes against my skin, a constant reminder that I didn't quite fit in anywhere. The shame burned deep as I changed into clothes picked out by strangers - too big here, too small there, but cleaner than anything I had at home. Their kindness hurt almost as much as the neglect.

Walking an Impossible Line

The threats created a maze of impossible choices. "Don't tell anyone about the house or you'll lose your sisters" in one breath, and in the next, "If you don't behave, we'll call child services." They weaponized both silence and the threat of exposure, turning child protective services into both the thing we had to fear and the thing they would use against us.

It was a cruel contradiction: being told our home situation was so bad we had to keep it secret, while simultaneously being told we could be reported to authorities for misbehavior. The message was clear but impossible: our living conditions were bad enough to separate us if discovered, but we were somehow supposed to accept them as normal. Bad enough to hide, but not bad enough to fix.

When Adults Choose Not to See The evidence was literally in their hands - as they passed me donated clothes, as they watched roaches crawl out of my belongings, as they smelled the decay that clung to everything I owned. The teachers who gave me clean clothes and deodorant knew enough to recognize I needed help, but chose the easiest solution instead of asking why a child came to school in that condition.

Their response to brutal bullying - "kids are cruel" - was a cop-out that gave permission for my torment to continue. No consequences for the bullies. No protection for me. Just a shrug and "kids are cruel" - as if cruelty was a natural force that couldn't be controlled rather than behavior that should have been stopped.

When Speaking Up Makes Things Worse

The one time I tried to break the silence - to tell a teacher about sexual abuse - it backfired in ways that proved every fear about speaking up was justified. The teacher, bound by mandated reporting, set off a chain of events that seemed to validate every threat I'd been given about what happens when you tell.

I never even got to speak directly to CPS. Phone calls were made behind my back, creating a game of telephone where my truth got lost in translation. Investigations happened at my cousin's house, not mine - missing the deeper problems, the neglect, the hoarding, all of it. Instead of help, I got blame. Instead of protection, I became the source of family turmoil.

The Perfect Camouflage

What made it all even harder to expose was my mom's constant presence at school - PTA meetings, teacher conferences, school events. She created this public face of involvement that made it even harder for anyone to see the truth. Who would believe that a mother so engaged in school life could have a home in such conditions?

This involvement created a shield that made teachers even less likely to act. The contrast between her public presence and my private reality made it even harder for me to be believed or helped. The public performance of "good parenting" made the private neglect even more confusing and harder to expose.

The system failed at every turn:

• Teachers who saw the signs but chose easy solutions over real help

• CPS who never spoke to me directly

• A reporting system that turned my attempt to get help into family chaos

• Adults who let me be tormented while handing out clean clothes

• A mother's public involvement that created the perfect cover for private neglect

When you're a child trapped in these circumstances, every system that's supposed to protect you becomes another reason to stay silent, to hide, to endure. The very people meant to help become part of the wall of silence surrounding you.

The Clothes That Marked Me Different

The irony was crushing - living in a house overflowing with things, yet never having what I actually needed. My parents could fill cart after cart at thrift stores and budget shops, but they seemed blind to what could help me fit in, what could ease the daily struggle of being different.

While other kids wore clothes that helped them belong - the right brands, the current styles, things that let them participate in conversations about pop culture - I wore whatever my parents deemed "good enough." Always from the clearance rack, always from thrift stores, never what I asked for or needed. Each piece of clothing became another wall between me and my peers, another reason to feel outside looking in.

The disconnect was heartbreaking. They could spend endless money on their hoarding, filling our home with things we didn't need, but when it came to something that could help their child feel less isolated, less targeted - suddenly there were budget concerns. It wasn't really about money - it was about their inability to see me, to understand what their child needed to survive socially.

Every morning meant facing another day of standing out when all I wanted was to blend in. The "good deals" they were so proud of finding became markers of my difference. While they saw bargains, I felt the cost in every sideways glance, every whispered comment, every moment of not belonging.

Pop culture wasn't just entertainment - it was the language my peers spoke, the way they connected, the currency of belonging. But I was kept outside this too, marked by clothes that screamed "different" in a world where different was dangerous. Each outdated style, each ill-fitting garment, each missed trend was another barrier between me and any chance of normalcy.

Blame for Their Chaos

The relatives would sweep in like inspectors, armed with judgment and useless advice. Their faces would twist with disgust as they surveyed the mess, launching into endless rants as if I - a child - was somehow responsible for fixing what the adults had broken. As if I hadn't spent countless hours trying to clean, trying to organize, trying to create some semblance of normalcy in a house that fought against it.

Birthdays became cleanup marathons. Instead of excitement about cake and presents, I felt dread. Hours spent frantically trying to clear enough space just to exist, just to maybe have people over. The party would have to be outside because inside was impossible to salvage. Even celebrations had to bend around the hoard, had to accommodate the chaos that adults created but children were somehow expected to solve.

Their lectures were always the same: "Why don't you just clean it up?" "How can you live like this?" "If you just organized better..." "Why don't you throw things away?"

As if I hadn't tried. As if I hadn't spent hours sorting, cleaning, begging to throw things away. As if every attempt hadn't been met with resistance, with anger, with items pulled back out of garbage bags. As if I had any power to fix what the adults in my life had broken.

The exhaustion of being blamed for a mess you didn't create. The frustration of being lectured about solutions you'd tried a thousand times. The helplessness of being expected to fix adult problems with child-sized shoulders. The weight of responsibility without any actual authority to make changes.

Birthday parties became exercises in strategic planning:

• Hours of cleaning that would be undone within days
• Carefully choreographed outdoor celebrations
• Elaborate excuses about why no one could come inside
• The shame of relatives' disapproving glances
• The constant awareness that even your special day wasn't yours

You learn early that celebration comes with a price. That joy must be earned through hours of futile cleaning. That even your achievements and milestones will be overshadowed by their dysfunction. That family members would rather lecture a child than confront the adults actually responsible for the chaos.

There's a special kind of defeat in trying to clean a house that fights back against cleanliness. Where every item moved triggers an avalanche of more items. Where your best efforts make no visible difference. Where relatives who visit occasionally feel entitled to criticize what you live with daily.

The truth is, no amount of child-powered cleaning could have fixed what was broken in that house. No lecture from relatives could have solved what they weren't willing to understand. No birthday party could have been normal when the foundation it was built on was anything but.

To others trapped in this reality: You deserve better. You deserve space to grow, to play, to live. You deserve parents who choose your wellbeing over their stuff. You deserve to have friends over, to have clean clothes, to have hot water and clear air to breathe.

Your pain is valid. Your anger is justified. Your need for a clean, safe space isn't excessive - it's human. We are more than the secrets we kept, more than the shame we carried, more than the things that buried our childhoods.

Most importantly: You were never the broken thing that needed to be hidden away. You were, and are, a person worthy of space, love, and the simple dignity of a clean home.

All the advice I read on how to deal with my HP say things like: go at their pace, always have their consent, don't use words like "hoarder", don't describe the mess as a hoard but use terms they would use.

I feel like my entire family has been tiptoeing around my HPs problem for decades and the only thing it has done has enabled them and allowed them to think that their behavior and lifestyle is ok.

What they are doing is selfish and destructive and I don't understand why not holding them to account is a legitimate strategy. Does the HP always choose the hoard over family?

Their problem seems similar to an addiction. I'm not sure what the latest data is on the best way to help addicts but I can tell you that decades of gentle encouragement has been futile.

my take on what I think hoarding is: It's an adaptation to deal with stressors without a suitable coping mechanism in it's place, or really no mature coping mechanisms to speak of. I think the defense mechanism originates when the person comes from a history of scarcity mindset (unstable childhood). This pathology in the background of a high consumerism society makes me think this is the result.

My dad had a storage unit full of art and it's going to take me a year to sort through and sell....I've had lots of pieces listed for months and no one wants it, even for super cheap. So he wasted money buying it, storing it and now I'm wasting time and energy selling it....I'm bitter he got to spend his life buying stuff and I'm living in poverty forced to spend my life selling things. He has been such a burden to me. He has Alzheimer's now and I've had to take over his life and become responsible for a man who only cared about himself...thanks for letting me vent.

Mumblemumble years ago, my mother had to leave her hoarded apartment thanks to water intrusion events (looooong story). I lived in the same complex; my parents and I moved there many years earlier. However, in the sudden moveout, while I remained in the complex and she changed to a different one, she didn't have time/energy/whatever to clear out the garage my parents had rented (and filled with my grandmother's car and boxes of crap—including file boxes filled with papers from work she had no reason or business bringing home; she retired many years ago, and hasn't even looked in the garage in years). My grandmother's car passed down to my father, who died in 2015. My mother never got around to putting the title in her name. I've been paying for the garage since my mother moved (yes, I know).

Now, however, I've officially ended my lease, and moved to a condo. My mother never did get around to moving her stuff out, putting the title in her name, and then selling the car (not that it would be worth much). The apartment complex, as is their right, wants to get the stuff out and bill me. No surprise and very little I can say protesting; I'm friends with the former manager who warns that they might file an eviction on me, so given that it's good that they're only asking for written permission to trash the contents. My mother is scrambling now (she knew I closed on the new condo on 12/23 and would be moving) and kind of trying to blame things on the weather and the holidays (valid, but only to a point), saying she can get the title in her name same-day, and saying she'll contact a junk hauler for the other stuff.

Now, if she can't get the title same-day or has to wait 30 days or something, I will probably end up being charged for towing out the car and trashing the contents of the garage. I will be paying for the junk service as well, including towing, etc. since she can't afford it, unless she's somehow able to get the title in time and sell with those "we buy your car" services.

I love my mother and she's great but this executive dysfunction/inattentive ADHD/depression/what have you has really caused major problems that I end up being on the hook for. (Yes, I know I could have just had the stuff removed, refused to pay for it, etc. But the car is not legally mine to do anything with, anyway. Just frustrated for once again being on the hook for something not my fault. No comments please on how I don't have to pay for any of it. :))

Edit: The car is worth approximately $263, lol

UPDATE 1/29: Last night my mother agreed that all things considered our only real option was to tell the apartment complex management that they could "trash out" the contents and bill me (after talking to the former manager, whom I'm friends with, I'm willing to cover the likely cost just to have it done). Since the title owner is deceased, it would be considered an abandoned car. But my mother did want to see the condition of the garage, the car, and the items for herself, and I knew she wouldn't settle for anything else, so I agreed. We met there at 4:30 and left at 6, of course. She tried to go through all the boxes she could reach and salvage things that had sentimental value or were basically "new" (if being in a garage for at least 10 years without being used counts as "new"). But you have to picture disorganized piles mostly of boxes that suffered some damage from the time someone left the door open during a multi-day series of thunderstorms. There was no way to walk alongside the car any more or get more than a foot into the garage, and things were dirty, dusty, and with cobwebs and dead insects on them. Some of the stuff was mine, like childhood room keepsakes and my college paper clippings, and I did manage to find a number of framed family and childhood photos. Luckily those were in good condition. Most upsetting was that there was a box marked "Photo Albums" in my dad's handwriting at the very back in the middle where we could not get to, and all we can really do is ask the management to save that box for us (my mother left a note asking for any photos or photo albums to be left with the office; I know that has no bearing when the junkers just have a job to do, but we'll see). Yet another round of chagrin for not handling things properly at the time, at the cost of things and actual money. She lamented her habit of mixing in valuable things with literal garbage, as so many hoarders do. I also got ticked off at myself for fussing at her for getting going already (thinking of scenes of hoarders searching through piles of stuff like in the TV shows) while I was meanwhile going in and getting stuff (in fairness, what I grabbed was irreplaceable photos).

For work, I had to enter foreclosed houses to take pictures for real estate agents. No amount of ranting will be able to cover my anger about this: some of our hoarding parents destroy whole houses.

Allow me to explain: heavy, stacked weight ruins the foundation leveling and settlement. Roofs don’t get replaced, plumbing, etc., you know the deal. Biohazards are leeched into even the studs. None of these things are cheap to fix.

The trends I noticed in the homeowner’s insurance market, mortgage guidelines, and inspections, state that these houses get torn down with a bulldozer more often than not.

The biggest problem with this is that we already have a housing crisis. Our parents aren’t getting any younger. Not only do they destroy our familial estates, but they completely obliterate any chance of an average American family to purchase that land and have a house to live in.

Listen, this will only get worse as they age and pass on. Out of state investors purchase the land and slowly take over whole neighborhoods for rentals. This method of doing things destroys communities. We all know perpetually renting is a wealth sinkhole.

The fact that hoarders not only destroy their families with their habits, but perfectly good houses, is a problem we don’t talk about enough. I am very seasoned and in the field. I have experience that makes me even more worried for the future. These vacant houses will continue rot for years while nobody can safely live in them. The damage is far, far worse than just “too much stuff.” They take potential buyers down with them, eliminating the amount of opportunities to settle down throughout the states. I’ve been to both rural and city areas and it’s all the same.

/end rant. Thanks.

This may be lengthy so apologies in advance. My dad will be 70 in May. He has his own home and he inherited his dad’s when he passed in 2017. Prior to 2017, his dad’s home was in a state of hoard & disrepair. The house was absolutely filled with just all kinds of trash and stuff, needed a new roof, etc. In addition to having his father’s home that he doesn’t maintain, he also has his which I might add he still owes almost $100,000 on at 70 years old. His own home is a massive pit. He has 20 broken down cars that he refuses to scrap, he has 6 vehicles that he insures, 2 of which don’t run. He has overgrown trees allllllll throughout his property even coming out of the LP tank. House and garage are just full of junk. He throws trash all over. Dishes were so piled and hadn’t been done in so long that I found a decomposed mouse underneath them in the sink. The worst of it though, his bathroom for sure. His toilet hasn’t flushed in probably almost 20 years. I haven’t lived there since I was 16 for that reason. You can imagine the smell, the health hazard, etc. I’ve had plumbers come out and he tells them to leave. He throws literal tantrums, screaming, crying, throwing stuff, stomping anytime I try to help him fix anything, clean anything or help him at all. I’ve tried to tell him to sell his dad’s house to pay his house off. I’ve offered to pay for dumpsters and do all the manual work, I’ve tried to pay for plumbers to come fix his toilet. Nothing works. I cannot let him continue living like this. Any suggestions as to how to get him to allow me to assist him are appreciated. I have tried everything. I speak to him calmly and respectfully. I’m at a loss. I just want a better life for him.

After leaving "home" and realizing my hoarder parent is a "covert narcissist" I'm looking back on how deeply the mental illness goes.

She would regularly give completely unprovoked monologues about how non-hoarders are "so wasteful" and "shortsighted" because "you never know when you'll need something like [random debris]".

Other times she would magically change her own unfortunate circumstances growing up in poverty into a virtue looking down on those better off, saying things like "Well we cant all afford to go buy a new [random worthless item] when we need one, so I have to keep things like this around". Of course this is untrue on multiple levels, since basically all of her hoard is objectively speaking, worthless garbage, and secondly, she was at the time making an executive salary, so yeah, actually she could've afforded to buy more dry-rotted lumber scraps, used decrepit furniture or battered small appliances if she ever needed to.

I've been scolded and shamed for disposing of inexpensive things that would never reasonably be worth fixing, because "I should've kept them for parts".

She views this dysfunction as not only normal, but indeed virtuous, looking down on all non-hoarders. So glad I'm out of that environment. Anyone have thoughts on this mindset, or similar experiences?

pretty sure my mother is a hoarder, has been her entire life i think, im 19 and living in this house has become unbearable, i constantly try and pick up and put old clothes into bags to donate but my mother just gets mad and dumps it out saying we can sell it, i dont know what to do anymore, i have a job but cannot afford to move out

I love my older sister beyond anything you can think of honestly. Just wanted to make clear I value our bond immensely before I get into the details of my weekend. Back in 2021 my sister made a sort of chaotic exit out of our hoarder mom’s apartment. At the time stuff created “pathways” throughout the house. (Just for some more details without exposing my sister on here) She had left with her high school sweetheart whom she had divorced years prior. Given the pairs past tumultuous relationship I was very judgmental about the move. She was moving hours away, cannot drive and no promised job. I couldn’t understand how she was leaving with an uncertain future. I made nasty comments that didn’t make her feel any better about her decision. It was honestly was all out of love and fear that this guy I despised was taking my favorite person down a path of self sabotage. I felt he was taking her away from me….. fast forward to today and the feelings I want to share. The apartment now is now a health hazard. Rotten food is overflowing out of the fridge. An entire room is filled the brim with unknown stuff. Garbage rots away in the kitchen for weeks until it is taken out. I know have to make missions to dispose of my garbage (gross warning: even dirty cat litter) so I know it makes its way out of the house. I operate by dissociating as soon as I open the door in home. I’m currently sitting at a rest stop driving back home and my anxiety is running 100mph. Everything worked for my sister in the present. She doesn’t like her job but it’s steady pay, she has a new healthy relationship and her own CLEAN place. I do not envy her but I envy the new peace she has. I just wanted to give some detail before I say I NOW understand what she was feeling back then and I’m regretful for judging her on her bravest decision she’s ever made. I wish I could I could have an ounce of the strength she had then. Hope everyone had a good weekend btw!

The type where like trash just ends up in piles on every inch of the floor and dishes don’t get done and there’s rotting food in the kitchen and the living room. Roaches had started to infest and fruit flies. I recently discovered my dad had been living like this due to some health problems and mental health issues. It broke my heart to see. I cleaned up all his trash for him and cleared the kitchen so he could use the sink and counters again. And hired a professional cleaner to get the remaining grime up. I don’t know if it’s hoarding or not? He’s not buying countless items or anything like that. He’s always had trouble with letting too much mail accumulate (the pile is like 2 feet high), and not getting laundry done like just piling it up and forgetting about it. It feels like hoarding and depression and anxiety and feeling stuck not knowing where to start. Sorry if this post is not allowed!

My hoarder mother started saving up for a two week trip around July last year because she wanted us to take the train and see the West Coast in March. But with election time things changed because we didn't know what the country would look like then. I wasn't fully convinced anyway because I felt like that was money and time off work she could use to clean the house. So I thought I convinced her that we could use that money to rent a dumpster and clear out the house instead and she agreed. Mind you I'm bringing up if she got time off to clean the house for months and she keeps saying oh I forgot I'll ask on Monday and that Monday never comes. So finally a couple of days ago I asked if she wanted me to email the dumpster company for a quote and she said I don't have the money for that. And I asked well what about the money you saved for the trip that was supposed to go towards a dumpster and she said oh I spent it already. The anger I felt was consuming and I asked her would you rather keep living like this then to save up and get a dumpster and she said well if YOU want one you have to pay half for it knowing I couldn't afford it. I almost lost it and cursed my mother out. Instead I asked her to leave me alone and she acted like she was the victim. Every time I set boundaries she gets mad at me like I'm in the wrong. I don't know why I expected this plan to work. Maybe I'm wrong but I feel like she doesn't give a crap about me. How could she when she doesn't care enough about herself to get help or even ask for professional help since I'm not able to do long physical labor. I confess that I hated her for a whole month and it was consuming me so I had to stop and let it go to dislike because I was hurting myself mentally. I kept breaking down.

Hello everyone! I am 23(F) and the child o f a hoarder. My mum has always been a hoarder my entire life, and my older siblings say it has always been that way even before I was born. It is mostly clothes, shoes, and bags that are not in any order, just piled into bags across the house. Every single room in the house is filled with her clothes, including my own room, with the exception of the bathroom (which she fills with unnecessary pieces of furniture that are also filled with stuff). There is stuff everywhere, you cannot see any corners of the house because there is stuff. It’s as if she has an aversion to space. All my siblings have moved out and they rarely go to visit because there is no space for them to sit. My dad is at his wits end and it is causing him a great amount of stress, he has recently retired and he just sits there all day amongst her clutter. I feel terrible for him but he can’t afford to get himself a little flat or his own space. I am at university but will be moving back home this summer and I am dreading it. I have grown accustomed to having my own space free of clutter and have found myself becoming hyper vigilant to mess, constantly cleaning, somewhat excessively, in an attempt to ensure I never end up like my mum. I don’t know how I will tolerate moving back home, I love my parents so much and I want nothing more than to live with them but I cannot stand the house. The clutter is one thing, it is the filth that I can’t tolerate. Growing up we always had issues with rodents, and I think this is an ongoing issue. Because of all the stuff on the floor, chairs, counter tops, maintaining the house is impossible so we live in squalor. It is ridiculous I cannot even put into words how filthy the house is.

What I am most afraid of however, is that I will never be able to find a partner. I have always struggled to be vulnerable and I generally don’t let people in. I have many friends so I am not isolated, and despite these friendships being extremely meaningful, I sometimes feel they are surface level. How can I let someone in to my life when I carry all this shame around with me? My whole life I have felt like I am harbouring a secret, even throughout school people used to say I’m so secretive and they didn’t understand why I never spoke about my parents or why they never met them. Majority of my friends have never met my parents because I cant bring people over. I am trying to learn to let go of these feelings of shame, because that is not my house it is my parents house and it is not my mess - I am not like that, very much the opposite. I no longer am afraid to talk about the hoarding, and my close friends are aware of it, I make light of my ‘mental mum’ and tell them my house is not conducive for visitors in a jokey way, but they don’t know the severity of it.

I just don’t understand how I am supposed to become romantically involved with someone when I can’t have them round. How am I supposed to let someone into my life when I have this horrible part of me? My siblings have all found love and have their own families and we are very close so I know it’s not impossible and I’m not alone. But I am alone, it’s me that has to live there, it’s me that can’t cook because there’s no space on the worktops, and it’s me that has to stamp my feet everytime I enter a room incase there are rats.

I’m sorry this is so long and kudos if you read the whole thing lol, I don’t even know what I want from posting this I think I just needed to vent and get it out. Advise me if you can or resonate with me if you can’t. Praying for better days :)

Oh forgot to mention that whenever any of us try to talk to her about it she just shuts down like literally spaces out, like unresponsive. Anytime she does try and sort her stuff out she is essentially just moving it from left to right. Never throwing anything away. There’s always an excuse as well, “I’m tired from work”, “I’ll do it when I’m off”, “I’ll move stuff into the shed when the weathers warmer”. It’s always something. Our relationship was massively strained at one point because I just couldn’t cope. I hated her and actually wished harm would befall her (or me) just so the house would either be clear or I could leave. We have come a long way since then and I love her more than anything, even thinking about how I felt about her back then makes me feel sick and guilty. But the fact of the matter is the same. I try to not judge her because I know she is unwell and it’s not her fault, but then whose fault is it? I just don’t know what to do.

My HP is gone overnight today so i’m trying to do some very subtle cleaning, like going through bags of papers and just tossing expired coupons and things like that that i’m pretty sure he wont notice since he hasnt touched them in years anyway, and I found this in one of the piles LMAO. Really wish that i could actually bring up to him how much the hoard affects me and show this to him without getting screamed at bc he believes in signs from the universe and all that, but oh well. I keep pressing him to go to therapy (I never use the H word but if i catch him in the right mood i can sometimes mention my general worries about his mental state without him losing his shit), he promised he would & i’m hoping if he does actually goes through with it he’ll eventually get to the point that he can come to the conclusion that this is unsustainable on his own, so i might re hide it since I can’t actually throw any of the bags/piles out anyway, just reducing their size. Anyway i just thought this was so funny and wanted to share.

I (27F) recently moved back to my hometown wanting to take a break (multiple reasons - job burnout, unhappy in the city i was living in for few years etc).

My parents are divorced and I'm currently living with my mum, but I've also been seeing my dad and my grandma more often. One of the main reasons for moving back was also to consider whether I would want to settle down in my hometown now that my parents and grandparents are ageing. A few years ago I wanted nothing to do with my family, but even when I was living elsewhere (even in a different country) I always felt psychologically tied down to my family. I think it's because I don't have any siblings and I know it will likely be up to me to deal with it all.

Now that I've been living at home for a few months, I remember why I wanted to leave (in brief I have a complex relationship with my mum). I hope to move out again soon, this time for good, with all my stuff out from both my dad's and my mum's place. But my dad has a history of mental health issues and lives with my grandma, who has a lot of stuff in her apartment, including an extra rental storage unit that she keeps other stuff in. My dad's mental health has been somewhat unstable over the years, and a few years ago he said that he would also "go" once my grandma passes. Because of his health issues my grandma (who is very old, in her 80s) is still the one who is caring for him. I've had some discussions with my grandma about the amount of stuff we have - and she's told me that I can sort it all out when she passes. She's under the impression that I might stay permanently, so she's kind of agreed that we can sort it out together slowly in the future, although I'm currently unemployed and I would really need to get a job and get serious about deciding to settle down here, which would likely be permanent.

I think realistically speaking, that would probably be the most ideal situation in being able to help out my grandma with general housekeeping and decluttering. I am super grateful to my grandma and I think it's incredible given her age that she has managed to live with and care for my dad for all this time. But even for the few months I've been living back home, I feel like I'm being dragged back into the physical and psychological mess of my childhood again, so there's a part of me that wants to move somewhere else again. Even though it feels like I'm trying to avoid this problem, and even when I was living away from home, I wasn't really able to move on with the rest of my life - I would think about this impending problem a lot. I did get some therapy in the past, but I feel like I just need some more concrete advice/suggestions about how I could go about this situation.

I just got back home after being away for college, when I try to put my stuff of course there's many boxes in the way. My house supposed to have 3 vacant room(one of it being my bedroom) but it's used for my mother and sister items instead.

My sister just went through graduation 2 months ago, she received lots of bouquet, from real flowers, fake, compilation of goodies. Since we're forced to share a room, her bouquet takes too much space. She said she doesn't wanna throw it away so she can see it and reminisce the memory, there's even dead flowers(if i move it slightly, the petals goes everywhere) she said she wanna keep it forever and won't throw it away. I don't wanna be selfish tho, so I let her keep it and just moved her stuff so I can get some space.

But when I found letters from MY friends, it was like some small notes from years ago, i was about to throw it away but my sister started crying told me i'm heartless just because I wanna throw away the notes. But it's my stuff, I can do what I wanna do with it. Even my friends who gave it to me don't care about it since it from years ago. She snatch it, start crying and scold me about how I don't appreciate stuff from the people around me.

I've always tried to tell my mom to sort her things out, cause it's always the same cycle happening. My mom can't find XYZ, so she bought another XYZ, then she saved it in a box somewhere then lost it again. I'm tired, I wanna move out really.

I could write an essay about my mother, but suffice it to say, the marshal came today and almost evicted us (on top of the hoarding she's also incapable of working a 9-5 and doing things on time, thus the rent has become an issue). But he came in, saw the squalor, and referred the case to Adult Protective Services.

I'm 20f and a college student, and I just feel so defeated. My semester is starting on Monday and now we have this hanging over my head. I'm terrified of 'leaving' my mother (who is controlling, narcissistic, and somehow also unable to be an independent adult). But my father has been telling me to come live with him for years. I don't know what to do. I've lived with her dysfunction and her guilt and her immaturity my entire life. My sister moved to another state and no longer speaks to her and I wish I did the same.

I'd love some general advice, but also does anyone know what might happen when APS comes and investigates? Will they actually try to help her?

Title. I’m going to start cleaning up specific rooms of the house, starting with the kitchen. I know it sounds silly asking for tips, but what were some things that any of you have done to achieve your goal ?