You see hoarders on TV, and you never really know what it’s truly like living in it. I’m currently writing a memoir, which has been the most invasive thing I’ve ever done, and it’s brought up a lot of memories for me. I wanted to bring to this space some raw truths about what it’s like being the child of a hoarder.
One of the most vivid memories for me is using the bathroom. For years growing up, the toilets in my house didn’t work. Broken, no water running to them, black rings inside the bowls, and a smell you don’t want me to start describing.
We couldn’t have anything repaired in the house because my mom would go to jail from the state of it, so I had to keep the secret.
I grew up in Albany, New York, and the seasons fluctuate temperatures so drastically that my bathroom routine really depended on what season we were in. If it’s summer, I can easily go pee outside. If it’s winter, it’s way too cold to do that, but if I had to have a bowel movement, it was great in the wintertime because it would disappear into the snow.
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Here was my typical bathroom routine. Close the toilet lid. Step up onto the top of the toilet, facing the window. Open the window above me and pull my pants down. I press both palms flat on the windowsill and push myself up until my hips clear it, the same way you’d hoist yourself onto a ledge. Then I twist around so my back is to the window, and my thighs end up resting on the sill, facing back into the bathroom. From there I scoot backward, inch by inch, until my thighs are still hooked over the sill but my butt has cleared the opening completely, hanging out over the roof below. I have to get far enough back,
or I’d urinate on myself. Most of the time it would hit the shingles, like rain.
Every morning I would wait until I got to school to use the bathroom. Nobody at school knew any of this. What they knew was that I showed up with dirty hair, because I couldn’t wash it either, and dirty clothes, because I couldn’t wash those either.
It’s been three years since my mom has passed. I have a lot of complicated feelings around my opinion of her. I know it sounds absolutely insane but my mom’s house was my safe place and she was actually protecting me from worse. I have a lot of compassion for the mental health struggles she’s had since her passing that I don’t think I would have had if she was still here.
Although I’m sure my story may be a little unique, I don’t think the version of a little girl having to keep secrets is. I hope that in me living in my truth, you can too.
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This is a screenshot of my toilet growing up. How I got the video is coming up!
Thank you for writing this, Bunny. I really connect with your story and feel less alone when you share. I’m glad to see you are on substack now - i’ve followed you on IG for years. Sending love.