I grew up being wholly disorganized.  My ADHD ruled my life, and I was always forgetting my purse places, misplacing homework, and never able to find the things I wanted or needed to live a productive life.  Yes, my room was an organized mess, but it was still a mess.  And when I say mess, I mean hoarder level mess. 

And my entire childhood, my mother shamed me for it.  She made me feel like I was broken or stupid, all because I just could not keep organized.  The funny part was that our house, while tidy, was not clean.  And it was only tidy on the surface.  But open a closet or two, a couple drawers, or the door the guest bedroom, and you'd be met with an avalanche of stuff falling out.  My mother was a "hidden" messy person, which made her just as disorganized as I was.  She just hid it better.  And the sad part, was that I didn't realize it at the time and thought I was a total freak for being so messy, while my poor mother, who had to put up with my messy ways, was an immaculately organized goddess.  Oh wait, that's also the funny part.  Because now I giggle about that, wondering how I could never see the truth as a kid.  

But now I know the truth, that I am not broken or a freak, I just was trying to fit into someone else's idea of organization.  I was trying to become my mother.  

That's what happens when you have an abusive parent or two.  You learn that you have to be like them in order to make them happy.  Anything less than that is a recipe for more abuse.  And in turn, we think the same way.  "If I am not like my parent(s), then I am not good enough."  But since we aren't them, we can never be them, and so we'll never be good enough.  This is the cyclic thinking that never leaves most of us with parents like this.  So, we are forever on a merry-go-round of trying to be like them, failing, and feeling not good enough.  Over and over and over until we die.  

So, the trick is?  Is to get off the merry-go-round and make our own way in the world without their judgement.  

Fast forward to 2013.  I was 36 years old, and deep on that crappy merry-go-round with my mother.  When she did something that changed my life.  She denied that my father abused either of us.  My father was a physically and emotionally abusive alcoholic, who hit my mother until he died.  And my mother heard from my cousin, who heard from her daughter, that I wrote a blog post about my abuse growing up (on a private, anonymous blog, by the way).  How my cousin's daughter found it, I do not know, but I did write it and they showed it to my mother.  And my mother said I was a liar that none of that ever happened, and that I must have "grown up in a different house" than her, because she never saw any of it.  

Wow.  What in the hell was that?  

Turns out, my mother has NPD, which is narcissistic personality disorder, which I did not know at the time, but found out soon after, and then my life was changed forever.  The story of my life changed from me being the broken one, the stupid one, the horrible one, who would never and could never make my mother happy, to all of that baggage being laid at her feet instead.  I became free of it.  Not wholly, but mostly.  And it really, really made me angry.  

I went no contact after that.  For a few months, but then due to my family's financial circumstances (she paid for much of our groceries), I had to go crawling back, as though I had done something wrong, not her.  It was horrible.  But I was not the same person I was before it had happened.  I was changed.  For one, I was way more jaded and apathetic around her.  I learned to go grey rock early on and stayed that way.  Every time I've veered off that path, she's hurt me, so I keep to it as much as I can.  It's depressing, especially when you deal with a narcissist as much as I do (she's in my daily life), but it's better than her using what I say against me or to hurt me.

I could go into detail about how, as an adult, she thought she owned my apartment and would use her key to come in any time she wanted, and then complain about my dishes not being done, or my house being messy, or whatever else she liked.  Or how she wanted keys when I moved out of that apartment, and I never gave her one again (I learned my lesson LOL).  I could talk about when I lived with her when I left my ex-husband, for a little over a year and how her abuse got worse and worse and worse during that time, until it culminated into her hitting me in the face for no reason.  And then me and my kids moved out shortly afterwards.  I could talk about so many things she's done and said to me, but you get it.  She's abusive.  I've explained that already, so I will let you use your imagination as to what has conspired between us for all of that time.  

Fast forward to 2016, a short three years later (yet it felt like forever, though), and I went no contact with her again, for fourteen months, after a series of horrible meltdowns she was having (which included a smear campaign to all the neighbors--did I mention we lived a block away from each other?).  Near the end of the fourteen months, we decided to leave town and move 500 miles away, in which we ended up losing everything we owned and became homeless.  It was one of those "too good to be true" deals, that did not end in our favor.  So, we came crawling back to our hometown, in a rental car (because our car broke down beyond repair, too), with as much as we could fit in the trunk of our tiny rental car, which was basically nothing: some clothes, a tiny TV and our PS4, and a couple of other small items.  Did I mention we had four adults, four cats, and four dogs to take with us?  It was cramped, to say the least.  We had to leave two of the cats behind that we found new homes for, because we just could not fit.  And of course, the only person we had to go crawling back to was my mother.  

My husband's parents are toxic narcissists, just like my own.  We had been low-contact with them for many years by then.  We only had one friend and I only had one family member who could help us out.  And only my husband's friend lived in our town, but didn't have anywhere for us to live.  Which is why I had to call my mother, as she lived in a two-family flat, and we needed to call her landlord to see if we could stay above her.  My mother almost told us no, per the instructions of her new best friend, who was awful (though my mother only makes friends with awful people).  But she eventually said yes, and I called her landlord and we were all set.  I was so grateful that space was open for us, because had it not been, we'd have been literally living in someone's garage and our kids would have been living with their father (which is not a good thing--they get along, but only in small doses).  And we would have lost our dogs and the two cats we had left.  

I did forget to mention that I have pretty severe anxiety and have had it since I was born (I have ASD, as do my kids, as does my husband).  So, this was all making me feel more than just a bit overwhelmed.  We drove the fourteen or so hours back to our hometown, woke up my mother to let us in, and that was an awkward moment.  We had no pillows, no blankets, nothing.  She lent us some, but expected them back immediately.  So the next day we went out to the Salvation Army and picked up a few more pillows and some blankets, as well as some kitchen items.  We were literally starting over with absolutely nothing.  Which was the exact opposite of what we had before. 

Picture it, Sicily, 1912....

Or rather, a twelve-hundred square foot two-story house, filled with crap.  We had four bedrooms, one was my art studio (the biggest bedroom in the house, which was literally just used for storing my art supplies and not actually using the room as a studio), a good-sized kitchen, a good-sized dining room, and a good-sized living room.  Our basement leaked like crazy, so we didn't store too much down there, though we did at first.  Upstairs were two bedrooms, a full bathroom, and three gigantic sliding door closets that took up the part of the roof that slanted.  The middle one was all shelves, with room behind it for boxes, and it ALL WAS PACKED!  

In 2015, I decided to "downsize" my art studio and got rid of things I'd been holding onto since 1998, when I first started scrapbooking.  Who wants scrapbook supplies from 1998??  Ew.  Plus, everything else I'd accumulated since then.  I think I donated around $2,000 worth of art supplies, and many trips with a filled minivan to the resale shop.  And guess what?  IT WAS STILL PACKED FULL!  Sigh.  

Right before we moved, we had a moving sale, and got rid of sooooooooo many items, that it was insane to think we had that much stuff stuffed into our house.  And I was living a life desperately trying to organize it all.  But there was one thing that I didn't have then that I have now that I think was the main cause for my never-ending piles of items: PURPOSE.  

Back then, I wanted to live a simple life of just being, rather than doing.  And I still do, to a point.  Back then, I'd buy things because I wanted to enjoy it.  I wanted to do art projects just for the sake of doing art, which led me to buying an array of items for these art projects that I never did anything with.  I either used the items and then stuffed the art project away when I was done (or half done) or I didn't even use the art supplies to begin with.  And I am an artist at my core, so I was always making art.  I even set up an art studio in my dining room, because I hated being stuffed away (like my stuff) in an upstairs room all alone.  I have to say, I really enjoyed created art in my dining room.  I removed our dining table and put in our utility tables in a U shape and had all my supplies out where I could see them and use them (first indication of my organizational style).  But for what purpose?  What did my art do for me?  Yes, I loved creating it, but at what cost?  My house was a stuffed-up mess, and I never did anything with my art before, during, or after creating it.  Which is fine, if you're not a type of messy art supply and book hoarder with stuff all over your house.  

I am not saying people should not make art for art's sake.  I am saying that it just wasn't working for me.  

Anyways, we had our sale, donated all the leftovers, and then went to packing the rest.  We got the moving truck, and we got the second biggest size and guess what?  Just guess. I bet you can guess.  I bet you see exactly where this is heading.  Yeah, I see you laughing right now.  Don't worry, so am I.

It didn't fit.  Like a huge amount of it.  Like ALL OF OUR KITCHEN STUFF.  Like our dining room table, our dressers, our bedframes...none of it.  Do you know what went in first?  Yes, you guessed it, all of my art supplies and our massive collection of books.  I mean, they didn't take up the entirety of the truck, as we had beds and stuff, but so much of everything else did not fit.  We could only take two laundry baskets of kitchen stuff and that's it.  

Now, here is something extremely funny: today, I only have enough kitchen stuff to fit into two laundry baskets, period.  Back then, I had lived the way my mother lived: I had fifty of everything.  Fifty pans, fifty pots, fifty cups, fifty plates, etc., etc., etc.  So, when we moved, I thought we were missing so much stuff that I thought I needed.  But then, moving to that flat above my mother and having nothing, taught me to cook with one large pot, one medium pot, and one small pot, and two pans.  And that's all I still have today.  Yes, I do have an enormous ceramic stock pot in my garage, for cooking huge soups and whatnot in, but that's almost an extra carrying basket in itself.  

But it's crazy how much clutter we live with that we think we need and can't live without.  I am here to tell you, you can not only live without it all, but you can live without anything and still thrive.  Granted, you'd need to grab a couple things to use, but once you get used to that, you realize that you never needed any of it to begin with.  

Yes, I mourned the loss of our items.  I mourned them for a long, long time.  But now I realize something: I now, finally, have purpose.  And my purpose is NOT to recreate the life I used to have, but rather, the life I want for myself and my family for the future.  And those items from our past were not going to help with that.  So, when we finally got enough money, a year later, we drove back down, 500 miles away and picked up the stuff we left behind in storage.  I never thought we were going to be able to, I figured we lost all of it forever.  But we did.  And we could finally close the chapter of our lives that literally gave us all PTSD for a long time afterwards (it was traumatic--there is so much more to the story that I won't share here).  But then we had to unload all that stuff into our apartment attic (yes, we had a HUGE attic, which was kind of cool) and I thought to myself "I lived for so long without all of this, do I really still need it all?"  And then I promptly decluttered and donated a huge amount of it before putting it away.  We also found out a bunch of the stuff we had stored had been stolen, like all of our DVD's, my clothes, and some other random items that I honestly cannot remember.  

But that the proof right there, isn't it?  If I can't remember what was stolen, did I really need it to begin with?  The truth was, I didn't need any of it.  

My youngest son is an extreme minimalist.  He doesn't use labels, but he is 100% that.  He has so little items that he could probably pack up his room in under an hour and be ready to move if need be.  I envy him.  He only owns what's important to him.  All of his items have PURPOSE.  

My oldest son is also a minimalist, even though his room is a mess.  He also has ADHD, like me, and has a horrible time organizing his stuff.  Which is something I am working on with him, as I learn how to be better, myself.  He owns more stuff than his brother, but like his brother, he only owns items he uses, and all of his items also have PURPOSE.  

My hubby, well, it's in between.  He loves books, as I do, but in all honesty, most of his stuff also has purpose, but he does tend to pack away stuff he thinks he'll want later, just as I do.  

I am the only maximalist in this house, and I own the most stuff.  But I am moving towards more a minimalistic lifestyle.  I need all my items, as well as all of my projects, art or otherwise, to have purpose, too.  I am not fully there, yet, but I am WAY better than I ever have been before.  So, I am getting there.  I have lots of hobbies, which is my ultimate downfall.  But I need to streamline them, and consider which of my stuff has PURPOSE, and what doesn't (what stuff am I keeping for emotional reasons or just mere collecting?) so I can move towards living the way I will be comfortable with.

My kids used to own hoards of toys.  But now that they're grown, all of their items have PURPOSE, rather than just crap to collect.  I know my hoarding tendencies are what led to them, especially my youngest, to be the exact opposite of me in that respect.  He hates clutter, so here, in our new house (we'll be moving again soon though), I make sure the common areas are clutter free.  I don't do projects anywhere but in my room or in the basement.  Both of which need some more decluttering, which will be happening soon.  I know that I live with other humans, and I need to respect their needs, as well as my own.  But what even are my needs?  How much of who I am comes from my mother?  And how much is actually me?  That's something to work out and if I do, maybe I can stop hoarding stuff all together?  I know I did it with the kitchen, so I can do it everywhere else in my life, too.  

Growing up with chaos, led me to having a more chaotic brain.  I was born with ASD, anxiety, and ADHD, so my brain already was working in its own way to begin with.  Then I was put into foster care at six months old, and put into another foster home at one, and then adopted at a year and a half.  So, my brain really was brimming with chaos and abandonment and all sorts of crap.  Then I found my new family to be abusive and more chaotic than I could handle, which made my anxiety worse, and the only thing I had that was constant was my "stuff".  Which is why I held onto it for so very long.  I became emotionally attached to things, because people weren't safe.  And what would my mother do?  Go into my room while I was at school and throw everything away.  Which always devastated me, because I was never allowed to say goodbye to anything that I owned, which were things I looked forward to seeing every single day, as the only form of stability I had.  So, on a regular basis, I would accumulate stuff, get attached to it, and then it would be ripped away from me again, and again, and again.  It was this horrible cycle of loss, that had been repeating in my life since birth.  She even did this into my teens, until I got a lock on my bedroom door.

Then I became an adult, and nobody could throw my stuff away anymore.  I no longer had to endure that cycle of loss.  I could accumulate, get attached, and keep it!  What a concept!  Which is what led to all of this.  But now, I have created stability in my life with the right people, rather than things, and I am not as emotionally attached to my stuff anymore.  I still have residual emotional attachments, but I am getting better all the time at shifting them from emotional to "does this item have purpose in my life right now?" instead.  So, it's all about purpose now, not attachment anymore.  And that's a step in the right direction.  

One day at a time, right?  That's all we can ask for with ourselves when we are seeking change.  I've been gentle with my journey, not judging and thinking "Why is this taking so long??".  Instead, I just go with whatever the day brings.  That's the Buddhism talking.   But we can talk more about that later.  Until then, thank you for reading and be gentle with yourself on your own journey, no matter how long it takes.  Because however long it takes, it's the right amount of time.