I grew up in what can best be described as a hoarder's hovel, and it was rare to see the carpet in any room. Piles of clothes, soaked in cat urine, old papers, toys, and food wrappers covered every surface in the house. Cleaning was basically impossible; even if I spent an hour trying to sort out a corner of the house, there was nowhere to put the stuff. Any canyon cut down to the carpet was quickly filled back in with piles of trash.

Digging through the house would be depressing to anyone. Baby photos torn underfoot, broken glass worked into the shag carpet, flooding from an unseen radiator pipe and the resulting mold, boxes filled with packaged cabinets and dressers... bought with the hope that they could organize the mess, but only becoming part of it.

It's probably not surprising that I grew up thinking this was normal. What did I have to compare to? Every other house I visited was probably just cleaned up for the occasion, and of course the houses in TV shows were supposed to be idealistic. It wasn't until college that I started to understand that my childhood wasn't normal. Going back to my home was crushing; even the worst dorm rooms looked tidy in comparison.

Even now, it's incredibly hard to bring myself to clean, though the sight of disorder is tough to bear. I'm resolute not to end up like my mother did, and when I do clean, I'm hardcore about it. Can't repeat the mistakes of the past.