Heavy Hoard

Clothing inundates my parent's house. Clothing overruns all three bedrooms, cascading through the doors of five double closets. Piles of clothes cover the hallway floor and hang from hall closet doorstops. Clothing swamps the bathroom and drowns the bathtub. More clothing drags down the shower curtain rod in such quantities it's frightful. Clothes are stacked in piles behind the bathroom door, in the laundry room, and in the "rec" room. In the basement, most of the clothing accumulation on the floor stands 4-5' in height. What dangles from the ceiling hangs 3-4' down. All of it comes together like stalagmites and stalactites. My mother calls herself a "Fashionista"; that's fancy talk for "Hoarder."

In the early days, most of the clothing came first to me as hand-me-downs from older cousins. Things I received but into which I couldn't fit and styles I refused to wear, instead of passing them to my younger cousins, to another family, or donating them, my mother collected everything and swore she'd wear it all. Things my mother bought for me, she took those too. My mother enjoyed saying she was wearing "little girl styles" or "teenager styles" and proclaimed--as often as possible--she was "cute" in her outfits, demanding agreement and expecting me to confirm that she looked "like a little girl" or a "school girl", and that she was "too cute for words." As I got older, taller and bigger, and fit into clothes that were too large for my mother, wanting styles she didn't like, she started to resist buying anything for me. It felt like she was punishing me for deviating from her "program" and for attempting to express my own voice, define my own style. So, at 14 I was forced to start buying my own clothing with my own money. I got a job so I could support myself.

For a time, when my mother paid for my things, I went with my mother's likes, allowing her to steer me in the direction of frilly collars and pastel colors, fuzzy sweaters with hearts or flowers or teddy bears woven into the patterns, and corduroy "slacks." When I made my own money, I bought jeans, sweatshirts, t-shirts, and sweatpants: nothing my mother liked and nothing she cared to brag about "fitting." I eschewed frilly pastel "girly" clothing for "duds" that fit me, mentally and physically. I became acquainted with comfort rather than "style." And, I felt "free." In years to come, my mother found a way to appropriate even those items, adding them to her "sleepwear coordinates."

When I was old enough to leave home, I fought to take my clothing with me. Not only did I buy all of it with my own money, but I chose my outfits to suit my taste. Claiming anything brought into the house was automatically hers by virtue of its existence under HER ROOF, my mother hawkeyed me to ensure I wasn't "stealing anything." Once packed, she inspected my bags, claiming to be protecting herself from me, the thief. It felt, to me, like she wasn't so much protecting herself as she was shopping for possessions in my suitcases. If memory serves, there were several things she pointed out and said she wanted before I left. It was hard to separate, and even harder to enforce boundaries when she behaved and talked like that. But still, I escaped.

Once I left home, my mother took to "visiting" discount racks and second-hand shops where she "couldn't pass up a bargain." Eventually my father bought armoires, chifferobes, and old department store racks with wheels so my mother could "organize" her "closet", not protesting all all... even as the house became a 1,500 square foot closet. My mother lined the basement with racks, not unlike a stock room. When she ran out of space, she started lining the floor and making mounds again.

Today my mother wears three select outfits. She wears them no matter the season. She's "saving her wardrobe" for special occasions. These days she doesn't leave the house for anything more than medical appointments or to have the "senior special" lunch at a local diner. For decades there hasn't been a special occasion for her to attend. Yet, when I've tried to discuss the possibility that other people might greatly appreciate clothing donations or that she might have better use of her space if she were to give away some of her collection, she resists. She has a multitude of reasons for "needing" 31 white blouses of the same style.

She might stain one and need a backup.

She might forget to wash one and need one in a pinch.

She might not ever find another nice one like the ones she has.

She might regret giving them away.

She might have to deal with seeing someone else wearing "her" blouse.

The manufacturer might go out of business and hers might be a collector's item... someday.

So on and so on and so.

If I repeat back what my mother says, so she can hear how strange the reasoning sounds, she gets angry with me, saying I'm making fun of her.

If I attempt to question her as to the last time she needed a white blouse, she blows up at me, saying I don't understand.

If I explain to her that she has enough white blouses to go a month without wearing the same one twice, she smiles with glee as though I've just complimented or congratulated her.

If I suggest she might help others with the donation of white blouses, she wants to change the subject and talk about how poor and unfortunate she is.

If I dare ask how many other similar blouses she has in other colors, she tries to make me leave her house.

And, If I tell her that there's no such thing as "collector pieces" in modern day "throw away" clothing, she scoffs and claims I'm undervaluing her collection.

At one point, after threatening to report my parents to the fire company, my mother lightly packed 4-dozen trash bags of clothing and let me donate them to Goodwill. I was afraid she might go to the area Goodwill and repurchase all her donated items, so I drove an hour out of town to deposit items that were usable and threw away the rest, which was unusable (i.e. a single shoe, shoes with holes, shoes from which the sole was separating, etc.). In that episode, the first and only of its kind, over 6 weeks, my mother and I cleared a 3' path from the front door to the dining room (all of a 15' strip). In less than 3 months the path was closed by new hoards of clothing my mother collected from friends who were cleaning their closets for spring.

It was impossible to thrive when I was thrust--without my foreknowledge and against my will-- into competition with a woman 35 years my senior, someone charged with looking after my development, who poached my growth and my things and then who made laud her. Today it feels just as daunting to spend time with her, as I still look to her for that fleeting and fading "Mother" I always wished I had.