reality.”
They introduce the hoarder, a woman in San Francisco named Connie, and her daughter Pam, who is trying to convince her mother to clean her house so the health department doesn’t force her from her home.
I feel chills run through me as I watch Pam try to convince her mother to throw something out. “No, I can still wear that,” Connie whines.
“When is the last time you actually wore it?” Pam says. She holds the blouse up. “And look. It’s all stained.”
Connie grabs the blouse from her daughter and mumbles she’s keeping it.
Pam gestures to the mess in the room. “Mom, you can’t keep all this stuff. It’s ruining your life.”
Shit. This could me or Annie or Jeff having this very same argument with our mom.
The camera cuts away to the kitchen, and the daughter talks directly to the camera. “There is not one clean surface in this house,” Pam says. “Mom was always a little messy, but after Dad died, she buried herself with stuff.”
In the living room the only place to sit is the couch, which Connie uses as her bed. The camera pans to Connie’s bedroom. “There’s a bed buried under there somewhere,” Pam says. “I think it’s been three years since she slept in it.”
The next scene shows another family; the voiceover says, “This is a Category Five hoard, the worst kind. The cleaning crew must sort through nearly 5,000 pounds of junk. The smell of rotting food permeates the house, which is infested with fleas and roaches.” A gloved cleaning crew member holds up what was once a cat. “Two fossilized bodies of cats were found in the rubble,” the announcer says, “along with countless roaches and rats.”
“Oh, man,” I say.
“Yeah, it can get pretty gross.”
A teenaged kid named Todd tells the camera, “When my mom buys pop and puts it in the fridge, it quickly tastes like rotting food,” he says. “Everything we eat or drink tastes rotten.”
I run to the bathroom. I am shaking, trying to process this. That kid on the screen could be me. My dirtiest secret is out there on a TV show. Millions know what my siblings and I live with.
As I walk back from the bathroom, I hear someone onscreen say, “Hoarding goes beyond getting emotionally attached to items. Hoarders just can’t let go. They get overwhelmed, not about the clutter itself, but with the decision of what to do with the clutter.”
I slouch next to Shelly on the sofa. “I didn’t take you for being squeamish,” she says, laughing.
“I’m okay,” I lie. “I just needed to pee.” I don’t want to watch this show anymore, but I need to watch it. It’s a living train wreck.
After the commercial break, I am riveted as Todd’s sister tells the camera, “We’re kind of used to living like this, but we get doorbell dread.” The girl sighs. “Usually if someone comes to the door, I crack it just enough to say my mom is asleep or something.”
“We never bring friends over,” Todd says. Man, I have been there. My life is unfolding on Shelly’s TV screen.
“If Madeline does not clean up the junk within two weeks,” the psychologist, who is a hoarding specialist, tells the camera, “she will lose her children to Children’s Services.” That’s been one of Annie’s and my biggest fears, and that’s why we haven’t told anyone about Mom.
I watch as the cleaning crew tosses bags of garbage into an industrial-sized trash bin. “So far Madeline has been cooperative,” the psychologist says, “but we never know what will make a hoarder reverse his or her decision to let go of something.”
The camera cuts back to the first hoarder, Connie. The daughter is standing in the messy living room and throws her hands up. “I’m done here, Mom. If you won’t let anything go, I can’t stand here and be part of it.”
The daughter drives away in her blue pickup truck as the psychologist tries to convince Connie to get rid of a box of blank cassette tapes. “No, those are still good,”
They introduce the hoarder, a woman in San Francisco named Connie, and her daughter Pam, who is trying to convince her mother to clean her house so the health department doesn’t force her from her home.
I feel chills run through me as I watch Pam try to convince her mother to throw something out. “No, I can still wear that,” Connie whines.
“When is the last time you actually wore it?” Pam says. She holds the blouse up. “And look. It’s all stained.”
Connie grabs the blouse from her daughter and mumbles she’s keeping it.
Pam gestures to the mess in the room. “Mom, you can’t keep all this stuff. It’s ruining your life.”
Shit. This could me or Annie or Jeff having this very same argument with our mom.
The camera cuts away to the kitchen, and the daughter talks directly to the camera. “There is not one clean surface in this house,” Pam says. “Mom was always a little messy, but after Dad died, she buried herself with stuff.”
In the living room the only place to sit is the couch, which Connie uses as her bed. The camera pans to Connie’s bedroom. “There’s a bed buried under there somewhere,” Pam says. “I think it’s been three years since she slept in it.”
The next scene shows another family; the voiceover says, “This is a Category Five hoard, the worst kind. The cleaning crew must sort through nearly 5,000 pounds of junk. The smell of rotting food permeates the house, which is infested with fleas and roaches.” A gloved cleaning crew member holds up what was once a cat. “Two fossilized bodies of cats were found in the rubble,” the announcer says, “along with countless roaches and rats.”
“Oh, man,” I say.
“Yeah, it can get pretty gross.”
A teenaged kid named Todd tells the camera, “When my mom buys pop and puts it in the fridge, it quickly tastes like rotting food,” he says. “Everything we eat or drink tastes rotten.”
I run to the bathroom. I am shaking, trying to process this. That kid on the screen could be me. My dirtiest secret is out there on a TV show. Millions know what my siblings and I live with.
As I walk back from the bathroom, I hear someone onscreen say, “Hoarding goes beyond getting emotionally attached to items. Hoarders just can’t let go. They get overwhelmed, not about the clutter itself, but with the decision of what to do with the clutter.”
I slouch next to Shelly on the sofa. “I didn’t take you for being squeamish,” she says, laughing.
“I’m okay,” I lie. “I just needed to pee.” I don’t want to watch this show anymore, but I need to watch it. It’s a living train wreck.
After the commercial break, I am riveted as Todd’s sister tells the camera, “We’re kind of used to living like this, but we get doorbell dread.” The girl sighs. “Usually if someone comes to the door, I crack it just enough to say my mom is asleep or something.”
“We never bring friends over,” Todd says. Man, I have been there. My life is unfolding on Shelly’s TV screen.
“If Madeline does not clean up the junk within two weeks,” the psychologist, who is a hoarding specialist, tells the camera, “she will lose her children to Children’s Services.” That’s been one of Annie’s and my biggest fears, and that’s why we haven’t told anyone about Mom.
I watch as the cleaning crew tosses bags of garbage into an industrial-sized trash bin. “So far Madeline has been cooperative,” the psychologist says, “but we never know what will make a hoarder reverse his or her decision to let go of something.”
The camera cuts back to the first hoarder, Connie. The daughter is standing in the messy living room and throws her hands up. “I’m done here, Mom. If you won’t let anything go, I can’t stand here and be part of it.”
The daughter drives away in her blue pickup truck as the psychologist tries to convince Connie to get rid of a box of blank cassette tapes. “No, those are still good,”
Similar Books
