Every day, waking up,
Watching, waiting, looking at what needs to be done.
Dishes, laundry, feeding the beasts,
All seem like the littlest of things.
But when I cannot even get out of bed to clean myself,
How can I get up to clean everything?
'Family' that refuses to help,
Even though they have two hands and two eyes,
And they see.
It all comes back to me,
Going to work full time,
Coming home to work full time.
Is it because I am the eldest,
That they see me as free labor?
Or the lack of respect,
Seeing me as subhuman?
They may have moved on,
But I have not.
Stuck in the endless loop of stagnation,
All is not lost,
My writing is my respite.
For even if they work me dead,
At least it won't go unknown.
At the time of writing, I still lived with my emotionally abusive mother. I would come home after working all day, to find dishes stacked up so high, not even rinsed off. After running out of room, they'd put them on the stove. I was expected to handle it, despite it being their days off.
I relate it to hoarding. I don't know where she picked it up, or lost the will to do the upkeep. The counters would be piled on so high, you couldn't see that there was even a counter underneath. The dining room table filled to the brim with garbage and rotting cups. It got to the point where we had pests and it just got unbearable.
There are two things that I hate the most about what had been happening is that 1) They were and are teaching my young siblings to live this way, most notably my special needs brother. 2) We would clean it, my significant other and I! When they went out of town every now and then, we would do this huge deep clean. Everything looking as though it could have been brand new. As soon as it were over and they'd walk through the door, the piling and dirtiness would only resume. It going back to being horrendous within two days.
Looking back, I was so depressed coming back home after working every day, because I knew what awaited me as soon as I walked through the door. Constantly stressed out to the point of being sick, I didn't think it would ever end.
This story does have our little happy ever after, though! As of August 10th, 2019, they did move out! After three days of work, we got the house looking spotless and finally clean. It's been almost a month and a half since then, and we couldn't be happier. There are still a few struggles and I am sad for what my mother teaches, but sometimes what is best, is to just take a step back and let it be.
The road to recovery is a long one, this being only the tip of the iceberg, but I'm glad to be on this journey.
Lorna Lamon on September 20, 2019:
I'm so sorry you had to suffer in this way Cleo and your poem tells the story of the difficulties of living with hoarding disorder. Sadly this is an extreme mental disorder which will affect all those closest to the person involved. I hope you have the right support to help you on your journey of recovery and I wish you all the joy you deserve.