One Wee Spark

 It's been years since I've posted here at 1weespark. I didn't disappear, however. I had my head down, studying hard to get my MSW in clinical social work. And writing. Writing in a different way than I had been writing here. Creating content that I needed desperately thirteen years ago when my mother's health started getting iffy. Since January, I've been working on creating content that focuses specifically on what it is like to have a parent who hoards ( PWH ). As a clinical social worker and as someone who grew up amidst my mother's trash and treasures, I wanted to work specifically to create resources for adults like us. This is challenging, to be sure, because although we often have similarities in our stories, it's necessary to remain aware that each family has its own challenges. Anything that I create, it's important to me that it embraces the spectrum of experiences. Similarly, it's important to me to honor your expertise and your insight i...

Some of you have asked about my mom from time to time, and since our story is very public, I like to share occasionally. Stopped by Mom's apartment in the assisted living facility she lives at these days to drop off a few necessities for her. Her apartment continues to remain spacious and sparsely decorated. She spends most of her time in her room, watching TV and tatting or reading. She's given up many other crafts and social activities. I think dementia,  caused by her bipolar disorder, makes social activities hard for her. She can't maintain her focus on so many different people in large groups. She's aware that her memory is going. But dementia means that she forgets things. Like her only child's birthday. Or, it means that she remembers calling me two years ago on my birthday, and well, that is the same as calling me on my birthday this year in her mind. So my birthday came and went unnoticed by Mom. Or so I thought. Tonight, she handed me a neatly wrap...

Forgive me. You've been so kind to follow and read my posts in the past. I've been busy. Not too busy for my readers; I deeply appreciate you. Just busy. But back in the Fall, I was super busy speaking at conferences in Washington State and California, primarily on the effects to the child who grows up in hoarding. It was tough to speak on such a personal topic. I know you understand. I speak all the time. To social workers; to municipal employees and agencies; to mental health providers; to the community-at-large; to magazine, news channel and newspaper reporters. But this Fall, I took on a new stage, literally, at TedxSpokane--'Knowing It Again.' I did it for you. For your friends who don't get it. For your HPs who don't know they need help or understanding. For our children whose generation can do better. Please feel free to share this. As far as I can tell, this is the first TedTalk done specifically on hoarding. This message needs to get o...

It was six years ago this fall that my mother fell in between the piles of trash , treasures and trinkets in her home, leading to the most difficult season in my life thus far. I wandered through that period with few resources and guides. It wasn't that no one else had been in a similar situation. It was that so many families and individuals were keeping the hoarding secret held so closely and tightly that I did not have access to their knowledge, their experience, their wisdom. Swirling Question, courtesy of flickr But no more! More and more families are sharing their secrets and offering advice. My brothers and sisters from the hoard (along with myself) are finding our voices and helping others find their way through these tough situations. If today you find yourself on the brink of a forced hoarding intervention, or if you simply know that someday you may find yourself there , I hope you will head over and check out this list of questions I've put together. Helping ...

[Credit is due to my dear friend TLH for the word picture contained herein. It's all my writing, but I owe her for the visual that helped me find "my way" so to speak!] Have you ever been on a road trip in a city that you were not familiar with, and although relying heavily on your trusty GPS when you realize that you've made a turn just seconds before the GPS dialogue begins, "Recalculating...?" Honestly, I find that female voice slightly condescending as she points out what I've already realized. Duh! I know! And yet, twenty minutes later, that same female voice warns me to bear left when the freeway forks ahead. That voice is calm and soothing when it guides me, welcoming and reassuring.

It is with great joy and humility that I announce that we are offering another facilitated self-help group in Spokane, Washington for those who struggle with an excessive accumulation of things, clutter, and/or hoarding! Lightening the Load, a ministry of Sheltering Tree Church announces the 2nd Buried In Treasures Workshop! Beginning on Wednesday, 12/12/12 at...you guessed it! 12 Noon! The workshop consists of 15 two-hour sessions, and ends in early May.

It's been a while since I've posted on here...but I felt like today, I should share this thing I'm in the middle of. It's not a bad thing, per se...but it involves perhaps one of the toughest elements of change--embracing a new perspective about oneself. In other words, I am embracing "the real Ceci G", and becoming comfortable with who she is, further defining what I am not, and looking more realistically at what I can become. It's as if, in some ways, I'm looking at the whole world in a new perspective simply by looking more honestly at me.

Last summer, I had the humbling privilege of meeting with a group of approximately 20 adult "children of hoarders" at the Dante House, with our host, Dr. Suzanne Chabaud . Dr. Chabaud was preparing to open her online survey of adult children from hoarded homes, and this group came together to share commonalities, offer support, and to become empowered to make change for others like us, especially those children who might still be living in a hoarded home. One of my colleagues, Momma B, as I call her, has been writing for years as a way to move through the chaos of her childhood. Her blog is on my list over there <--------. But just recently, her book by the same name, Nice Children Stolen From Car, became available for purchase. http://www.amazon.com/Nice-Children-Stolen-Car-1/dp/1475192630/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1337734821&sr=1-1 I strongly encourage you, no! I beg you! to click on the link and purchase Barbara Allen's book. Plus, if you...

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.

Warning--this is a very LONG post. Just a heads up.  For almost two and a half years now, I have set out each day to make my life one worth living, not by changing who I am, but instead by learning to love the real me and to give up on the "ideal" me. I'm never going to be that person. It's like Sheryl Crow said: It's not about getting what you want It's about wanting what you got I've spent so much time and effort at this. And yet today, for some inexplicable reason, the weight of codependency has fallen heavy on me.

It's drives my husband crazy when we go to bed, but I find the sound of a ticking clock very comforting and relaxing. Perhaps it reminds me of my mother's heartbeat in utero? I don't know. It just is what it is.

I grew up in a house that was far from "Home Sweet Home". The conditions of my home, the relationship between my mother and myself, and the dichotomy of my self at home and my self outside of the home stripped any positive connotations from the word home. I'm not alone.  Last summer, I was blessed to be part of a small group of adults who grew up in homes like mine. Our wonderful hostess and champion, Dr. Suzanne Chabaud, invited us to join her in New Orleans for a Summit of adult-children of hoarders. She welcomed us to the Dante house with open doors, and open arms. All of us were touched deeply by our experience. This week, I got the opportunity to return to visit Dr. Chabaud. My brothers and sisters from the hoard were not all here, and so the dynamic was different, but when I walked through the back door of the Dante house and through the kitchen, I was transformed. Where my childhood home had so many negative memories attached to it, this house has on...

"White lies" became a regular and normal part of my childhood. I've heard others tell stories about the elaborate tales of renovation that were built and concocted to keep friends and family away from the family home, the hoard. I was never that creative. I would say something along the lines of the house being a mess, believing that no one would truly suspect the truth--the house was a MESS! It hit me recently that I still have trouble telling the truth in situations where it really doesn't make a difference whether I tell the truth or not. It disturbs me to think that telling a half-truth or painting a beautiful deception is not only easy for me, but that my moral compass does not readily stop me from doing it. Borrowed from Mark Pocan, WI representative, personal blog For instance, I have told a lie about my abilities in gymnastics and tumbling since I was a small child. I'm not sure how the lie first reared its ugly head, but like a zit that is touched...

This hasn't been a bad week by any stretch, but my energy level has been nil since Wednesday afternoon. I don't know if it's because I had put so much energy into being right on the news interview, or because I donated blood that afternoon, or maybe it's just been a week with more need for energy than sleep obtained. It doesn't matter.

More than an extra Borrowed from "Asphyxia" on Squidoo dot com For most of my life, I've lived as though I were simply an extra in the film of life. I showed up, I did my part, but I didn't make any decisions, I didn't have a voice of my own, and I sure didn't take (or get) any credit for my role. This is the fate that growing up in a dysfunctional home handed me. For a while. No matter what background I come from, I hold a powerful tool in my hands. It's called choice.

Today, I'm preparing to meet with a member of the local news station to share my personal story of recovery. A friend encouraged me to reach out more to the media to help promote the local group. At first, I balked at the idea. I was afraid the focus would become me, and not the group. I decided to reach out to the local press anyways.

Something I've struggled with for just about as long as I can remember is an ability to dream and plan. For most of my adult life, if you asked me where I wanted to be, what I wanted to achieve in the next five years, I'd look at you with a blank stare. Who me? Borrowed from YourSoulGuidance dot com I have no idea!

The holiday season is almost over, and I hope that each of my readers had a wonderful time with family and friends. I realize, however, that quite possibly, that was not the case, especially regarding our HPs. And so, my motto for the New Year is simply this: "I can't change my HP, but I can change my response to my HP." I will never have to power to fix my mom, make her different, or even bargain with her to lasting change. I can, and have, spent years trying to do these things with no effect. However, the second I set about to change ME , my mother seemed to change to. I can't promise that if you change how you respond to your HP that they will change. However, I can promise that when you turn your energies inward to changing the only person you can effectively make better, you will care less about your HP's neuroses. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting that you won't care about their mess and their mental health issues, their won...

Recently, I found myself in a situation that has become more unfamiliar to me these days. I found myself in a place where I couldn't find my hope reserves and cling to it. I was angry, tired, and frustrated. I wanted to yell out, "Stop this bus, I want to get off!" But I didn't. Instead, I decided I wanted to try something different. I longed to wander, to see new places, to leave behind what was familiar. I didn't want to leave to seek a solution; I wanted only to leave it behind, ignore it, pretend it wouldn't follow me, and "fix it now".

When you were a kid, did you ever go into a fun house with all those crazy mirrors? One transformed you from   a petite child of 4'2" into a child the height of an NBA star, yet another made you resemble the figure of the Pillsbury dough boy, and another appeared to give you a perfect hourglass figure. It was fun, but temporary. When you left the immediate area, you were still the same person as you had been before you entered the fun house and glanced into those mirrors. No matter how silly you felt before the mirrors, you could walk away and return to "normal". Or perhaps, if you were like me, with issues about your body, you enjoyed the few moments of "correction" and were sad to see it end and return to the same old, not-quite-what-you'd-hoped-for "me".