Ever wonder about a compulsive hoarders vehicle? Is everything packed away in the house, or does it spill out? When the hoarding reaches a higher degree, it can’t be contained. Here is Mom’s van. Her compulsive hoarding follows her every where she goes.
It’s packed to the gills. If she were ever in a car accident, even a minor one, I’m sure she’d be crushed by the projectiles. And be projectiles, I mean the following (but not limited to):
- at least 9 packs of Bounty dryer bars
- an open box of laundry detergent powder
- a dog crate (with dog)
- a domed cake carrier with uneaten cupcakes from last year (I SO wish I was exaggerating)
- case of bottled water
- a multitude of junk food boxes, bags, and wrappers
- full bags of laundry
- lots of shopping bags from thrift stores
- gifts given to Mom destined to never make it into the house
- boxes of stuff given to her by other people clearing out their clutter
I snuck out and took these photos with my phone while she visited this past weekend. Mom would be SO furious if she knew I did that, but I wanted to show you how extensive her compulsive hoarding, fueled by compulsive shopping, really goes. She drives around like this alllll the time. I can only imagine the impact it has on her gas mileage, and wear & tear on her brakes, tires, and shocks.
Is it stuffy in here?
Then there’s the air quality. Lynn refuses drive in the van with Mom any more. There’s no leg room. Debris has to be swept off the seat. I’m sure even finding the seat belt is difficult. How does Mom see out her windows? Carpooling? Forget it! And, what’s that smell?
I helped Mom put the dogs crate back in the van. The wall of stuff is so tightly packed it held its shape when we slide open the door. There was a niche carved out for the dog crate and I really had to put my shoulder to it to get it in. We closed the door and it didn’t latch, so we opened it up again and if there was ever a use for an industrial sized shoehorn, this was it. Finally, we wedged the crate in another inch, and got the door to fully close.
A final kiss, a last minute scramble for scrap paper to write directions, a missed moment of hesitation if I should say “something”, and then off she goes. A jumbled tonne lumbering down the street on the way home. To her nest. To her comfort zone. And to my dismay.