Queen for a Day

Doesn't everyone want to be treated like a Queen (or a King)? At least for one day.

There used to be a extremely sadistic TV show on that premise: women would come on the show and compete in telling a sob story - from Wikipedia:

Often the request was for medical care or therapeutic equipment to help a chronically ill child, but sometimes it was as simple as the need for a hearing aid, a new washing machine, or a refrigerator. Many women broke down sobbing as they described their plights, and Bailey was always quick to comfort them and offer a clean white handkerchief to dry their eyes.

The harsher the circumstances under which the contestant labored, the likelier the studio audience was to ring the applause meter's highest level. The winner, to the musical accompaniment of "Pomp and Circumstance", would be draped in a sable-trimmed red velvet robe, given a glittering jeweled crown to wear, placed on a velvet-upholstered throne, and handed a dozen long-stemmed roses to hold as she wept, often uncontrollably, while her list of prizes was announced.

Not only were they milking the misery of the "winner" for all it was worth, imagine being one of the losing contestants who'd put it all out there, but not "enough" to garner the highest on the "applause-o-meter."

An easier way to score a crown was eating a particular brand of margarine.

I begged my mom to buy that brand, because I coveted one of those beautiful crowns so much, and though my mother told me it was a trick on TV, she caved in and bought it once, so I could find out for myself.

The disappointment was almost as bitter as the margarine.

Anyway, if anyone deserved to be treated like a Queen, it was my mother, but she would never go on a radio or television show to whine about her life.

Mom and her younger brother

She was the oldest of four, and the target of much nit-picking by my (suspected OCPD) grandmother. She signed up for the Coast Guard and served with honor during WWII.

Afterward, on the rebound from a prior relationship, she met and married my father. Also a WWII veteran, smart, and charming as all get out when he wanted to be.

Probably NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder).  They had three daughters, me being the "bonus baby." Not long after that, breast cancer came along.  In those days, the way it worked was, you found a lump, they put you under and sliced you up. You found out if it was serious when you woke up, depending on how much of your body they'd carved away.

In Mom's case, pretty serious. They took her breast, the underlying chest muscles, the lymph nodes, and some of the muscles from under her arm.

Yet she would still smile at everyone.

I believe in the picture, below, she was still recovering from the surgery, because she had to wear those loose-fitting muumuus for some weeks (months?) afterward.

It was Mother's Day

I thought she should be treated like Queen for a Day. It was my idea, but my sisters joined in helping me make a "crown" out of, I think, a brown grocery bag, which I decorated with crayon and tinsel from our Christmas decorations stash. We put her on the "throne" with a fancy goblet of possibly wine, possibly fruit juice. Am not sure if the cushion under her arm was to add the royal touch or because she physically needed it in her recovery.

Prematurely silver hair ran in the family.
The glasses and the silver hair make her look old, at first glance,
but she was only mid-forties here.

I thought - I still think - she was absolutely beautiful, and I was so proud of her, so happy to have her as my mom. She was, in fact, the Best Mom in the World, though some silly people didn't realize that.  And I am still proud of her, and a little of myself, that I did make the effort to let her know how special she was to me.

And yet.

I cannot but think, now, that if only she had made a few different choices... Mom was my model for self-sacrificing relationships, for being sweet and kind and loving to everyone. No one had a bad word to say about her - not at her memorial service, five years later, after the cancer recurred, nor in the years that followed.  My sisters' husbands, who knew her in the years before she died, loved her to pieces. Who adores their mother-in-law?

I have come to believe that putting everyone else first, all the time, and allowing others to treat us badly, can, in fact, make us sick. Sick to death, even.

Doormats wear out.

My mother was a product of her time and her culture, and possibly even the influence of an OCPD mother. She followed all the rules of being nice, being polite, taking care of everyone but herself.  She was loved, yes, but only on rare occasion was she the one being pampered and taken care of.

Today is her birthday, and I'm missing her, of course. But I am also thinking that it would please her tremendously to know that I have learned from my own mistakes, and from her life.

There's a formula now, that we should put  51% of our efforts to ourselves, and no more than 49% to everyone else in our lives, added together. I can't help but think, if my mom had done that, she might have lived past my 10th birthday, and my life  - many lives - would have benefited tremendously for her continued presence in it.

Loving someone is never a mistake. But neglecting our own hearts, souls, dreams, and bodies, in the name of love, can kill us. Figuratively, or literally.

Do you believe in giving up everything for love?

Have you learned to save nurturing for yourself?

Do you have any life lessons from a loved one who's passed on?

Growing Up Hoarded, Part 2: Thalia of Tetanus Burger Shares Some Thoughts

"Before" garage picture via Tetanus Burger.  Used by permission

What would you do if you inherited not simply a houseful of hoard, but an entire junkyard?  (To read Part 1, click here.)


Thalia and her sister Tara have been blogging about their experiences cleaning up their father's junkyard - and garages - and work areas - since June 2010.

"After" garage picture via Tetanus Burger.  Used by permission.

The shows you may see on TV focus mainly on two things: a kind of train wreck fascination with the visual scope of the (worst) hoards covered, and the anguish the hoarder endures trying to give up any little piece of his/her "treasure."


What is rarely touched upon is what growing up in a hoard does to the children.  How does it impact them socially?  Do they inherit the distorted thinking that "there's a use for that," for everything?  Are they angry, hurt, confused?


Thalia of Tetanus Burger, for whom I hold more admiration for her courage and raw honesty than I can ever express in words, agreed to this e-interview in hopes of shedding a little more light on this issue.  To help those children and teenagers who are even now living with a hoarding parent, and wondering if something is wrong with them.

***

4) Let’s talk about OCPD, the need to control not only oneself, but one’s entire environment and inner circle of family. I’ve blogged here before about being lectured by my ex because I left the shower doors six inches from the wall to air out after a shower, and they were supposed to be eight. (Or was it the other way around, lol?) You’ve posted about some of the things your father did to control your household, like post a sign on the wall directing how you should do laundry. But it wasn’t just signs, I’m sure. What happened around your house if the rules were broken?

I don't honestly know how to answer that.  We weren't punished, not overtly anyway; they didn't spank us (except when we were really young), or even ground us (and in high school I was out sometimes till four in the morning on a school night).  I'm not sure what the hold my father had on us was.  It was just the way things were done.

When I was a kid and reading fairy tales I remember once in a while coming across one that was new to me, which had rules that contradicted what other fairy tales' rules were.  I remember almost freaking out at that—how was I supposed to know what to do if the rules were different?  I couldn't see the underlying patterns behind them, which I can now, things like be kind and compassionate, help the unfortunate, be true to your voice.  It was just all about the rules.  And I don't even remember most of those rules, so I can't even tell you what they were.

That's the thing about growing up with a lot of invalidation; your memory is both damaged and discounted from within.  So I can't answer that, except to say that my father sure yelled a lot, and would always scream about how he paid for whatever it was and how that gave him control.  So I guess the underlying threat was that he wasn't going to pay for it, and then what?  We'd starve even more?  Freeze even more in the winter?  Be even more miserable? 

When I was a child—a child—I had recurring dreams about living in a totalitarian dictatorship, usually under the Nazis, who were always watching everything I did.  The only thing I could think to do in those dreams was to hide, which is I guess pretty much what I did in real life too.  What kid dreams of Nazis?  I remember seeing, not too long ago, a tv movie on the Warsaw ghetto, and one of the characters, a Jewish woman, was out doing something against the rules, something to do with the freedom fighters.  She was walking out on the street trying to look like she wasn't doing anything 'bad' with Nazis all around just looking for an excuse to harass her or worse.  I recognized the look on her face as one I must have worn most of my childhood.

My father's need for control was so ubiquitous I couldn't even see it.  Still can't.  There is a thread on the Television Without Pity forum discussing the Hoarders TV show; here and there they mention Tetanus Burger and I read it having Googled my way there.  It is astonishing to me that they talk about my father there a little and call him an absolute control freak, just a miserable asshole.  It is good to hear, but in so many ways I still can't see it myself.

5) Currently, many hoarding sites primarily reference OCD as associated with hoarding, not OCPD, and there is talk that the new DSM-5 will put hoarding in its own separate category. You’ve written that you believe your father to have OCPD, and there is overwhelming evidence that he hoarded. I believe my ex to be an OCPDr who hoards also, regardless of whether “they” decide they’re interwoven together, or two separate disorders. What has been your experience and thought process in learning about your father’s mental disorder(s)?

My father absolutely and without question was a hoarder; the overwhelming evidence is that he had OCPD (as diagnosed-by-proxy by two separate therapists of mine now).  It is not, really, about belief at this stage, or that maybe I'm wrong.  Because I'm not.  And honestly, in downplaying my experience and what I have concluded about it, I hear you downplaying your own.  You may want to think about that; I have noticed you have a tendency to side or sympathize with the abuser, usually in the guise of needing to be fair to them too (which is crap) which is why I am being so picky about the way you worded that.

I don't know where the OCD thing came from; cynical me says that it's a lot easier to get sympathy for someone with OCD than it is for someone with a personality disorder (which, don't forget, also includes sociopathy and narcissism) and so that's how people like Frost and Steketee have framed it.  I don't personally buy the OCD angle all that much.  Because OCD is something the person is aware of, and the person with it usually sees it as not quite right and so they actually want to do something about it.

Whereas so many hoarders, from my own experience and what I have heard hanging out with other children of hoarders, see nothing whatsoever wrong with their behavior, or if they do (for example if they are ashamed of it or try to hide it somewhat, which implies that they do know something isn't quite right) they seem to have no concept whatsoever that what they are doing is harming others. 

I do think that hoarding is one of those things that probably has a lot of different causes, OCPD being one of them (and there also seems to be an awful lot of narcissism involved from what I've seen); but I do think OCPD in relation to hoarding is very overlooked.  But then there are only a couple of 'experts' on hoarding and I can't say I'm very impressed with them. 

My experience and thought process?  Describing my father to that first therapist, she did put it together that it sure sounded like OCPD; but at the time I didn't really understand what that meant.  It's only recently, really, which means, since my father has not been here, in my face, in my life, that I can see a little more clearly, and so I have been able to start putting things together and researching a bit about OCPD and other personality disorders. 

6) Your elderly father is now mentally incapacitated, which has allowed you and Tara to begin this massive clean-up effort. Your mother still lives in your childhood home, as does your sister. I imagine your feelings about your parents must be mixed. Care to share about them, or not?

Kittens via Tetanus Burger.  Used by permission.

Actually no Tara does not live here in the childhood home; it's myself and my mother (and an awful lot of kittens right now).  I will say that, yes, definitely, my feelings towards my mother are mixed (about my father they are not particularly 'mixed' at all; he was a bastard).

My mother certainly has some issues of her own which are not minor and which I am only able to see now that my father's blindingly obvious dysfunction is no longer outshining everything else.

I always thought my mother fought for us and that she was not an enabler, as they say; but now I don't know.  I don't want to get into it much more than that, though it has certainly been very much on my mind recently and is perhaps the most present bit of dysfunction I have to deal with. 

(to be continued...)

***

I do soft-pedal the amateur diagnosis, on our parts, of OCPD for our loved ones, having had it drummed into me that only mental health professionals can properly diagnose mental disorders (and sometimes even they get it wrong).

Guilty as charged as to being mealy-mouthed in this question, and yes, to being sympathetic to those with OCPD.  Having come to know a fair number of people with OCPD in the last few years, as well as their partners and children, I know that people with OCPD are sick, not monsters.

Does that in any way minimize the damage they inflict on spouses, love interests, children, and co-workers?  Hell no!  In fact, (as Thalia has pointed out to me), too sympathetic an attitude can enable this disease, making it worse not just for those who live with an OCPDisordered person, but for the person with OCPD, him/herself.

Yet, my goal here on this blog is to not only learn to heal, personally, but to help others who are also recovering, and not to demonize people with OCPD, but the illness itself.  I would love, someday, for OCPD to be known as well as Bi-Polar Disorder, Schizophrenia, and the "sexier" mental disorders that get all the press, and for the people who have it to get the help they need.

That said, I do not want to discount in any way Thalia's experience, or the experience of anyone else growing up with an OCPD parent, or who spent years with an OCPD partner.  There is damage and pain that will take years to heal - if it ever does.


Two things you can do right now, Dear Reader:


1) Add a comment to show your support for Thalia and her incredible courage in opening up about this very painful and difficult subject.


2) Download this attached .pdf prepared by Children of Hoarders.  It would be great if COH was a big, well-known organization with bucketfuls of money, who could afford to print out multiple copies and leave them in places like schools, pediatricians' offices, and youth recreational facilities - anywhere a child of a hoarder might find one, and realize s/he is not alone.

For now, they are asking for volunteers, to please print out what copies you can afford, distribute them where you can.  Visit the COH site and make a donation, if you can.  And pass the word.

Thank you.  Stay tuned for Part 3, tomorrow.  (For Part 1, click here.)

Growing Up Hoarded, Part 1: Thalia from Tetanus Burger Shares Some Thoughts

"Before" Photo via Tetanus Burger - used by permission

What would you do if you inherited not simply a houseful of hoard, but an entire junkyard?

Thalia and her sister Tara have been blogging about their experiences cleaning up their father's junkyard - and garages - and work areas - since June 2010.

The shows you may see on TV focus mainly on two things: a kind of train wreck fascination with the visual scope of the (worst) hoards covered, and the anguish the hoarder endures trying to give up any little piece of his/her "treasure."

What is rarely touched upon is what growing up in a hoard does to the children.  How does it impact them socially?  Do they inherit the distorted thinking that "there's a use for that," for everything?  Are they angry, hurt, confused?

"After" Photo via Tetanus Burger - used by permission

Thalia of Tetanus Burger, for whom I hold more admiration for her courage and raw honesty than I can ever express in words, agreed to this e-interview in hopes of shedding a little more light on this issue.  To help those children and teenagers who are even now living with a hoarding parent, and wondering if something is wrong with them.

***

1) How old were you and your sister Tara when you realized other kids didn’t live the way your family did? How did it make you feel? Were you still able to have friends over, or did the hoard make it impossible?

I don't know how old I was, and I can't speak for Tara.  I think in some ways I'm only just realizing my family was 'different' now.  I didn't have many friends when I was a kid, and only one really who ever came in the house.  I don't think I had 'doorbell dread' like some children of hoarders report, but that's really only because no one ever came to the door to see me.  It was out of my hands in a lot of ways, and maybe that speaks to my father's control of things.  People who came by were usually there to talk to my father about Volkswagens.

2) Were you and your sister pressed into being secret keepers (though obviously, all those cars were a pretty open secret). Did you ever tell anyone about your home situation in hopes of finding some help, or did you keep things private because of shame?

No, not really; there was no shame attached to in in my father's mind; it was what he wanted to do, and had the right to do, so it was good in his mind.  There was no point in keeping anything secret, and I was never told that I couldn't tell anyone about it for example.  I had no idea at all that there was something, well I can't say that I didn't think there was something wrong because on some level I knew it was screwed up, but I had no idea that it was abuse and neglect and that there was help out there, if only possible help.  I had no concept.  I think that is because of both my parents' attitude that the world is out to get you and that things are always bad, i.e. there is no such thing as help so don't bother asking.  In fact the way they framed it, bringing in outsiders was always trouble.

None of that is to say that I wasn't ashamed of the yard.  It was obviously a junkyard and ugly and not like other people's yards.  But I couldn't really grasp it in a lot of ways because it was vigorously defended as absolutely normal and what my father had the absolute right to do. I think I saw the junk more as a symptom of being poor.  I was certainly told to feel ashamed of that, while also yelled at for complaining about being poor, like it was my fault.

3) Your hot water heater broke when you were how old? And someone gave your father - an auto mechanic - one for free, but despite having the tools, the parts, and the mechanical expertise to install it, he didn’t. Tell us a little about that process of living without being able to take showers - was there a time you thought he would do it, “soon,” and then gradually gave up hope, or...? Did you ever think it was romantic, “Oh, we’re living like Little House on the Prairie,” or was it simply pointlessly miserable?

I think it broke when I was six or so; they didn't install it until after I'd moved out in my late 20s.  Or maybe I was in my thirties?  I don't honestly remember when it did get fixed and I'd think I would, wouldn't I?  This—Tell us a little about that process of living without being able to take showers—is a very uncomfortable question for me to think about answering; sounds voyeuristic to me.  Let's just say it really, really, really sucked; yet, of course, I thought it was just what it was, if not, well, 'normal', since I know no one I knew lived like that, still I could never see it getting fixed.  It wasn't, ever, that I, that we the family, thought he would do it; he was always, always, since time immemorial, completely impossible.  So I at least never had any hope that he'd do it.  If he did it would have been considered a miracle.  Which didn't mean we, I, didn't try to convince him (since he also adamantly would not let anyone else, like say a plumber do it, because that would cost money when he could do it).

We always thought (well I always thought) that if he could just be persuaded in the right manner, if we could just talk to him and convince him with logic or appeal to feelings or whatever other humans respond to, that we could get him to do it, maybe.  It was never romanticized, though my mother certainly downplayed it and mocked us if we complained.  She has some problems of her own, my mother, trust me.  The thing is that because my father framed it all as impossible or very very difficult I grew up thinking it was this huge huge deal to install a water heater.  So I don't even know that I would have thought it was pointlessly miserable, because I thought my father had a point about it.

Now of course I can see just how pointless it was since I'm older and can see somewhat straight. That's the thing growing up inside such dysfunction; you can't see it for what it is, not at all, and children for the most part believe what their parents tell them.

(to be continued...)

***

Not going to add a lot of my own comments here, but want to say this part: "if he could just be persuaded in the right manner, if we could just talk to him and convince him with logic or appeal to feelings" really rang out to me.  This was a big piece of my relationship with my ex, and many others dealing with OCPD loved ones have reported similar experiences.  They seem so reasonable and logical; surely the fault is with us, we're simply not communicating in the right way; if we just found that key...  Only there is no key, no "right" way.

Two things you can do right now, Dear Reader:

1) Add a comment to show your support for Thalia and her incredible courage in opening up about this very painful and difficult subject.

2) Download this attached .pdf prepared by Children of Hoarders.  It would be great if COH was a big, well-known organization with bucketfuls of money, who could afford to print out multiple copies and leave them in places like schools, pediatricians' offices, and youth recreational facilities - anywhere a child of a hoarder might find one, and realize s/he is not alone.

For now, they are asking for volunteers, to please print out what copies you an afford, distribute them where you can.  Visit the site and make a donation, if you can.  And pass the word.

Thank you.  Stay tuned for Part 2, tomorrow.