thought it was only logical to surrender when you're outnumbered. But that night, my mom’s stuff was not something I lived with, it was on me. It was like toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe, but the entire roll. I suddenly felt that I was going to die there if I didn't begin to inch away.
I slowly rose to go to the bathroom, careful not to wake Mom. I continually memorized the layout of her “system”, so I crept over the ordered chaos without incident. There were probably a few magazines in most bathrooms, but nothing like the stack in ours. Most of them were Better Homes and Gardens. I flipped through one because masochism is underrated. There were holes in some pages from where I used to cut pictures out for collages. They were mostly carnation-lined window sills, glass coffee tables, and green velveteen loveseats. Mom cried when I did that, ruined her collection. Those homes were her dream too. Now, I just make the collages in my head when I go to other houses for school projects. I know what luxury looks like and what normal looks like. To me, they’re one and the same.
Living with a hoarder is a precarious existence held together by the thread of Someday. My mom thinks someday we're going to need everything she sees by the side of the road. She never thinks someday I will leave. Then again, that’s never been something I’ve thought much about either.