Ask The Flytrap: How Do I Emotionally Escape My Hoarder Parents?

Welcome to your new favorite advice column from your favorite feminist journalism collective! New editions are published every Wednesday. Read on for the drama, the tea, and the commiseration—and if you want to submit a question, scroll on down to the bottom of this post for more info.

Let's get into it:

Dear Flytrap,

Please help. I'm in my 40's, and my parents have a potent combination of clinical OCD, paranoia, and anxiety. Or, so I assume. They will not see a doctor, they will not see a therapist, they will not admit that anything is wrong with them, only that they are in possession of A Great and Secret Wisdom that tells them that danger lurks everywhere, people are out to get them, save absolutely every piece of material that comes their way, don't bump the AC down to a comfortable temperature (81) because the AC might break, never clean out the fridge adequately and store the new perishable food you buy on the kitchen floor, etc.

When they love me, they love me fiercely, but so often it is like talking to a repeating tape loop about how I will inevitably get mugged if I travel to Europe, I am wearing too much clothing in the house (when I am wearing nothing but a LITERAL SPORTS BRA and gauze pants), I will suffer Terrible Consequences, described at length, because I am recycling a glass jar and only keeping 10 empty ones on hand, etc., getting yelled at that I'm going to break the car for sitting down on the car seats too hard (normally), and, you know, other totally benign things.

I have helped myself. I have done SO MUCH THERAPY to try to regain a normal worldview, because I grew up with this, and it was hell, and I was not allowed to have friends or any sort of hobbies/activities outside of the household. It was a hard road.

There is no helping them. They will not listen to me, they don't go to the doctor, and they have no friends. I have made peace with the idea, intellectually, that they will get worse and worse until they die. But how do I deal with the emotional gut punches that come with the swings between talking to a person and talking to their mental illness? And also wondering whether or not they are even capable of choosing to commit this heinously abusive behavior?

I now live so far away I only see them once a year and with time zones we only "manage" (I make it that way) a call maybe once every three weeks. But it still tears me apart every time.

Thanks!

Child of Hoarders

Hello, Child of Hoarders —

I'll just go ahead and say the first thing that came into my head when I read your letter: It sounds like you are holding on to the emotional responsibility you feel for your parents in much the same way they are hanging on to the glass jars and the groceries on the floor.

This is not to discount the tremendous work you have done to get where you are today. Figuratively, through therapy. And literally, where you are! Moving time zones away from controlling people who taught you to be fearful and suspicious and sure only of one thing—that scarcity abounds—is a radical act of self-preservation. This stuff takes strength and guts and mettle.

And yet you are torn apart, every three weeks, by the weight you still carry. The weight is made up of lots of things, probably. Love. Commitment. Fear. Hope. Uncertainty. Anxiety. The weight is doing something for you, still. Just like keeping the A/C on 81 is doing something for your folks, preventing them from having to acknowledge something, grapple with something, experience something new or different or strange or beautiful or relaxing or comfortable. Sometimes we hang on to hurt and trauma and discomfort because feeling a familiar, predictable pain is less terrifying than the possibility of feeling unfamiliar pleasure.

Intellectually, you know you cannot be responsible for people who do not want to become well. Now, you need to take actions that make that knowledge into reality. What would you do, then? How would you spend your time if you were truly, genuinely, forever and always not even a little bit responsible for people who do not want to become well? Where would you go? How would you start your days? What kind of music would you listen to? Where would you travel to? Who would you talk to? What games would you play? What would you make for dinner? Play pretend about it. See how it feels.

You will always care for your people. So when I suggest you see if you can let go of this weight you're carrying around, I don't suggest you stop caring for your people. That's impossible. But I wonder if refreshing this pain every few weeks is a good idea. I wonder if there are ways of staying in touch with them that are less frequent and less fraught than the dreaded phone call. (Letters? Texts? Voice notes?) Start there. Experiment. Be flexible and creative and gentle with yourself. You don't have to do everything all at once. Other stuff will follow.

See if you can give yourself time to be wounded, to bleed, to form a scab, and—finally—to heal, instead of scratching this thing open again and again. Maybe you will have a scar. That's okay.

— Andrea

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