Confession: I figured out why I'm a hoarder

Sometimes the hardest moments are the most revealing.

Artwork from The Shift, page 20.

This week, my daughter Violet and I had a huge fight. The screaming match was so intense my other two children left the house to play in the garden. I’m not proud of this. But if this newsletter is ever going to work, I owe you — and me — an honest accounting of the full spectrum of my life.

Why were we screaming? Because while Violet was at school, I entered and cleaned her room. When she discovered what I had done, she was teary-eyed and furious and I experienced every emotion available to me as both a person and a mother: sadness, regret, anger, resentment, sadness, and… understanding.

A few of Violet’s treasures.

Violet’s room is her sanctuary. Every single item in there — and there are many — is precious to her, and meticulously (albeit messily) placed. I know this. When I separated my twin girls into their own rooms about a year ago, they both blossomed, but especially Violet. Almost ten at the time, she was deeply in need of her own space. Her room, and her belongings, especially her her “stuffies” are sacrosanct. And I, in full mother martyr mode, had the audacity to forgot who my child is so I could dust under her bed (among other offenses) and give myself a pat on the back. Instead of immediately acknowledging and apologizing when she freaked out, I doubled down, and we squared off until she left the house alone for the very first time. She made it twenty steps down the street before I convinced her to come back.

I still remember the biggest fight my mom and I had about my room when I was growing up. She was always much neater than I am, and never had the urge to hold onto every little thing like I did. My mom and my longest running joke is that she gets rid of stuff all the time and when I ask why, she says (in farsi), “Khasteh shodam,” which translates to I got tired. We joke that it’s a wonder she’s been with my dad for over 40 years given her proclivity to get tired and unceremoniously let go.

My room drove her crazy. So crazy that one day she went in my room and threw away some of my makeup. When I came home and realized what she had done, I, like Violet, cried, screamed and left the house. How history repeats itself.

My headboard, covered in love notes from my family.

What does this have to do with hoarding? I’ve always been a collector, the kinder word I use to describe myself and to describe Violet. We collect things that mean a lot to us, and frankly the things that don’t, too. We envelop ourselves with belongings. Every note, every card, every art project, every book, every photograph, every pen, every remnant of a life lived that we’ve ever received or created. We hold onto it all. Under my bed, in my closet, on the desk I am writing this newsletter on… every inch of my world is full. I used to think this was because I’m sentimental or nostalgic. When I read Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up and she suggested that memories are no reason to hold onto belongings, I nearly burned the book. (Though I must note, it seems she has changed her tune since becoming a mom of three like me.) Why shouldn’t memories be a reason to hold onto something?

The things I’ve held onto have served me. This past week, I wrote for Read Poetry about discovering a book in my library that contained a poem I published at 11. How many people can say they have a book from when they were 11? I have dozens, if not hundreds. The memoir I aspire to write one day will surely be grounded in all the things I’ve held onto all these years. Every item triggers a deep memory and even deeper feeling and connects me to the past I’m increasingly having a hard time remembering. You may see the drawers filled with notes from my children as hoarding, but I see it as insurance. When I can’t remember, the notes will remind me.

But this week, fighting with Violet about her room, I realized that both for her, and for me, it’s not just as simple as being sentimental or nostalgic or liking or loving our things. The look I saw on Violet’s face when she entered and things didn’t look exactly as they did when she left for school was a look of terror. I had violated not only her space; I had violated her sense of safety.

Safety. That’s it. The thing my hyper vigilant minime of a child never feels, but deeply craves, the thing that always seems to elude me as well. I never feel safe, and neither does Violet. I wonder if it’s the trauma of my early life, when my parents and I escaped one country and settled in another. Did she inherit it through my DNA? Is that a thing? Apparently it is. Even in my sleep, there is no safety, no peace. My most frequent recurring dream is that someone is in my house robbing me of my wedding ring. Eyes half closed, I stumble around my room and hide my ring, only to wake in the morning and not know where I hid it. For Violet, the lack of safety manifests in different ways. In her relationship with food, in how she has hyper vision and notices every little thing we drive by on the street, in how she listens to every conversation and chimes in by saying, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Self Love Poetry, page 120.

The great irony though, is that when I research the connection between hoarding and flight or flight (the sympathetic nervous system response that I feel Violet and I are often experiencing), rather than decreasing fight or flight, hoarding increases it! The very thing we’re doing to make us feel more safe, is making our bodies feel less so. This links to something I learned in the book I recommended last week to my paid subscribers, The Body Keeps The Score, in which Dr. Bessel van der Kolk explains, “Many traumatized people simply give up. Rather than ris experimenting with new options they stay stuck in the fear they know… Are traumatized people condemned to seek refuge in what is familiar?” Our crowded rooms may be familiar — but that doesn’t mean they are good for us.

We all deserve to feel safe. I think there is a better way to get there than constructing a bursting-at-the-seams nest like Violet and I have. So this week, self love for me is giving myself a sense of safety — and giving my daughter a sense of safety, too.

Here are some techniques I’m using to help both Violet and I feel safer, regardless of what happens to our rooms (in addition to asking for her permission before I touch her stuff):

1. Collect music, not belongings

It’s time for Self Love Confidential Playlist #3. These songs are scientifically proven* to calm down your nervous system. (Okay it’s all just my opinion with the exception of track #1, Weightless, which is apparently the most relaxing song on Earth).

2. Do a grounding exercise

Grounding exercises get you out of your head and ignite your parasympathetic response system (the opposite of fight or flight). Here are 10 grounding exercises for you to try, including breathing, scanning, walking and holding onto some ice.

3. Speak to yourself

It may seem too simple to be true, but simply repeating the words “I am safe” to myself has had a profound impact on me. I say it out loud, I say it in my head. I remind myself. I believe words shape our consciousness, so I choose my words carefully. Try speaking what you need and see what happens.

4. Activate your sixth sense

Did you know there is a sixth sense, aside from sight, smell, sound, touch and feel? It’s your proprioceptive system, which some call the safe sense. It’s a sense located in your muscles and joints, and provides you with a sense of body awareness. Ways to activate your proprioceptive system include swinging, pushing, pulling, climbing, squeezing and stretching. Yoga for example is a great way to engage your proprioceptive system.

5. Play

There is no substitute for play. Violet’s happiest, freest and safest moments are always when she is playing. I watch in awe as she immerses herself with her stuffies or plays with her little brother. There is no fear in her when she plays. I’ve personally forgotten how to play. I’m writing this tip and wondering how I will execute it in my life. Everything feels so structured and buttoned up and mandatory right now. My request, if you’ve gotten this far, is to tell me how you plan to play. Let’s commit to it together.

Mother’s day is coming. I hope you’ll gift a subscription to Self Love Confidential to your favorite.