Dirty Secret Read Online Free Page B

afflict people who’d grown up in deprived circumstances—the Great Depression, for example—but most hoarding experts no longer subscribe to that theory. Therapists have treated hoarders as young as three, and their problem didn’t necessarily come from watching anafflicted parent. Studies have shown that genetics is more of a factor in the disorder than mimicking behavior—in fact 85 percent of hoarders have a first-degree relative they’d describe as a pack rat. Besides, if hoarding were caused by trying to make up for a previous lack, wouldn’t hoarders keep only items they could use? Instead, they often keep things the rest of us find nonsensical, like newspapers from the past twenty years or my mother’s many sneaker-clogs.
    Initially hoarding was considered a symptom of obsessive-compulsive disorder, like counting or frequent hand washing—since up to 30 percent of people with OCD have hoarding issues. But brain scans of hoarders reveal decreased activity in areas related to memory, decision making, spatial orientation, and emotions. As a result of those brain scan studies, and the fact that medications effective for OCD provide no benefit for hoarders, many specialists in the field are beginning to look at compulsive hoarding as its own discrete syndrome, most likely caused by brain abnormalities.
    My mother clearly has problems with spatial orientation and memory: That’s why all of her possessions have to be kept out in the open, while most of her shelves and drawers remain empty. That’s why rather than an address book for phone numbers, my mother has scraps of paper taped to the door between the hallway and the kitchen. She’s got three of my last phone numbers and addresses taped there, yet still, when she has to call me back for some reason or send me something in the mail, she asks each and every time for my information all over again.
    BY THE TIME she comes home from Perkins, I’ve made some piles and cleared a patch of the hardwood floor. I’ve filled twogarbage bags with junk. My mother doesn’t ask to see what’s in the garbage bags—as if once something is out of her sight it no longer exists—but she immediately starts rummaging through the piles that are out in the open.
    â€œJessie, I need these!” she says, holding up a mismatched pair of elbow pads.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œFor when I start rollerblading. And these!” she says, grabbing a second pair.
    â€œSo you need all seven pairs I’ve found so far, then?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo, you don’t,” I say, and eventually I’m able to convince her to get rid of three pairs. Which seems pretty good, considering.
    When Joe shows up, I put him in charge of emptying out my mother’s car, which is the second front for the hoarding. It looks the same as yesterday: the backseat piled high with books, bags of trash, the ubiquitous Savers bags, loose papers, stuffed animals, shoes, jackets, and hats. Within her hearing, I ask Joe to put everything on the grassy boulevard next to the curb and to try to group things into piles of similar items that my mother and I will sort later—then secretly I tell him to throw out anything perishable or trashed. He can use his own judgment. I don’t have time to ask my mom before tossing everything. Besides, I fear she’d find some reason for needing each precious object.
    In one corner of the living room, near the sewing machines, I come upon a nest of paper bags, each filled with yarn of various thicknesses and colors. The bags sit on top of empty plastic bins.
    â€œWhat’s going on over here?” I ask. It looks a little more organized than the rest of the room. I pull a spool of midnight blue yarn from one of the bags.
    â€œThis is my art corner,” she says. “Ooh! Pick out your three favorite colors of yarn!”
    â€œWhy?” I’m already suspicious. One of the reasons she