Hoarding and all it represents is obviously a complex malady and subject to dissection by those mental health experts that know of such things…or are trying to become the experts re such things.
But from a gut level, having trudged through these messes, I sense things that don’t necessarily fit mental health cubby holes, but just percolate there in my mind. Inner trauma and insecurities, something incomplete, anxiety, craving, striving for something but always feeling not quite there…..all this before becoming a hoarder. All this regardless of the Great Depression (the grand excuse of causation).
The intensity of obsessively moving down a road of buying things for ‘need’, resale, profit, money, self satisfaction…but all an on the surface response. It really was hiding the unseen, only suspected at a gut level, deeper dissatisfaction. Like a drug addiction and all its surface drama, the addiction masking, numbing something much deeper and unspoken. Pains, traumas, degradations that could not be spoken of back then…even barely today.
The anger, the palpable anger that boiled over into harsh discipline. Eruptions of temper and hyper critical judgments at every turn. Angry at life, angry to the grave.
My own anger at a father, long ago, that damaged young girls and caused such harm. The justice, old school justice, that should have been dispensed upon that man on some back country road. A bullet to the head would have justifiably dispensed with the harm he created for two girls, who later slide down a slippery slope of despair. The stuff was only the surface of frustrations with an insurmountable mess. The being buried and surrounded and hidden away in it was the real testament to a father’s evil.
Every thing seems in the past. All our efforts of care, grief, cleanup, dealing. But, even for us, beneath the surface is the hinted at understandings of why. I can tell you what I see, what I suspect causes great anger in me. I must let it go. I only pray if there is a hell, a certain man is in it and tormented for eternity.