Each Year is Worse in New Beginnings

I’m almost finished with Thanksgiving vacation. I came down to Eastman on Tuesday to spend the holiday with Dad. I’ll go back tomorrow, and tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

My dad’s hoarding problem only worsens. I hate staying in this house with him because it’s in such a filthy state of disarray. The kitchen, the living room, his office, his bedroom (and don’t get me started on the bathrooms), all of it is just so disgusting. Trash, used paper towels, scraps of paper, dirt, grime, dead bugs, you name it it litters his house. He’ll spray for roaches, but not sweep up their dead carcasses. He had an indoor cat that passed away two years ago. For whatever reason, Dad was unable to clean her litter box without spilling its contents all over the floor. Don’t get me started on the toilet bowls.

His excuse whenever I’ve asked him to demonstrate a basic awareness of hygiene in managing his home, “Well, ya’ know, my brain don’t work.” Of course, his brain works well enough for everything else he wants to do. He can shower, dress himself, do his laundry, fix his meals (though I wouldn’t eat anything coming out of that kitchen), maintain and drive his car, do his shopping, manage his finances, and so forth. What does he do all day? He’ll get up early in the mornign to go on his morning walk, then he’ll sit in his office and listens to his religious radio programming for the rest of the day. In other words, he does nothing. NOTHING!

I have no idea what to do with him. Years ago, he left town for a week to check on his previous house in Atlanta. My aunt recruited me along with some professional cleaners to clean the entire house. How did he react when he returned? Grateful? Appreciative? Nope. He was pissed. Something with how his sister-in-law needs to mind her own business and not mess with his stuff. I never quite understood why he was mad, but he was. I’ve mentioned how I’ve thought about eventually having him live with me, but I just can’t live with a hoarder. Both my parents were hoarders, but my mom was somewhat functional in terms of keeping the house orderly. Getting to the point where I could finally separate myself from that chaos was a landmark event; I can’t go back to that. Doing so would sever my last few remaining strands of sanity. The only other option is for him to go into assisted living, which he won’t do willingly. As poor as his emotional health is, I he’s not so bad he can be declared mentally incompetent, so I can’t force him into assisted living.

A part of me wants to give him an ultimatum: get rid of his hoarding problem or I’m cutting him out of my life. I just can’t do bring myself to do that either. Maybe I’m not sick of the high cost of low living as they say, or maybe I’m just not strong enough. I regret everytime I judged someone for not having the resolve to biopsy an unhealthy relationship. It seemed so obvious from the outside looking in, but once that emotional component is a part of it, obviousness does not equate to easiness.