If these walls could speak...

Maybe you've wandered over accidentally; you're blessed not to have a parent who hoards. That's not to say that your life is perfect. I know we all take our lumps. But it's entirely possible you've wandered to my little corner of the world, and you wonder...

What's the big deal about growing up in a home chock-full of stuff?

It's just stuff, right?

Only it's not. It never was just stuff; it will never be about the stuff. I distanced myself from my mother less because of the embarrassment about the house and the stuff, and primarily because of the way life feels in the hoarded home.
Recently, I was reading something another adult child had written. I found it very poignant:

I have never had a 'real life' friend or relationship.
Perhaps it simply broke my heart. How can one go through life never truly connecting with another person? And what is the history behind this statement? What has this person endured, fought, conceded to that they can say that they've never had a friend or relationship?

It's unspeakable, I tell you. My own childhood was bad; but I managed to muster up as much resiliency as I could, and that is why I'm here now, writing. But that could have been me; should have been me; nearly was me. And those are all statements of tragedy. Those are statements that reveal why growing up in a hoarded home is so painful.

If only the walls our of childhood houses (they were never our homes) could speak...

This was one of my favorite songs in high school. And I believe it demonstrated that my house was not representative of "home". It gave me courage to fight until I would someday stand in a house, and wonder...if these walls could speak...

I pray it encourages you. There is a home for each of us, filled with love, forgiveness, and acceptance. Don't give up on it. It will come.


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