Through my mother’s eyes: the October Personas Project revisited
Sons and Mothers
And here now is a twist to the October Personas Project: it was, in more ways than one, about my mother.
Save the few sports, school, or recent photos, my mom was often the one behind the lens, snapping thousands of candid pictures. But pictures weren’t her only medium. My mom was crafty and very good with many things. Professionally, she was a recreational therapist who worked with the developmentally disabled. Personally, she was an exceptional seamstress who made quilts, scarves, and costumes (see the scarecrow image below, a personal favorite). Plus, when she lived in Germany I’m told she began making leather purses and belts. My ability to write with any fashion is related to this. When I was in junior high, she had me take a red pen to my homework, chopping it up like a doctoral thesis or bashing it to fit like a stubborn piece of leather.
Things (and people) fall apart
My mom kept everything. She kept clumps of old hair pulled from her comb. She kept egg crates and milk cartons piled to the ceiling. She even kept junk mail by the pound. If you’re reading between the lines, you’re not incorrect: one version of my mom struggled with hoarding disorder.
It’s difficult to write the word hoarders without conjuring up the TV show. Though neither entirely similar or dissimilar, the biggest difference was this: there was no clean out. There was no dramatic confrontation. And there was no final resolution. Instead, there was only the slow creep of things piling up. My mom had a hard time getting rid of things. She had a difficult time letting things go.
A new home
Growing up, things were only let go if they could have a second life or a new home. My mom wanted things to be useful. She hated the fact that things ended in the landfill. I don’t think she could mentally tolerate consumerism’s dark side. If a single-use item came across her path, well, extra uses were found for the item before it was discarded (if at all). As a result, letting things go became increasingly complex. And this only got worse with time.
Speaking of time, I’ve been trying to give a few of her things a new home. I think she would have liked that. These photos were one such thing. They were found in boxes buried under other things within her house, many of them unseen by anyone – including herself – for decades. To give them a new home, some photos I mailed to people across the country. Others I had to throw out; there were simply too many to hold on to them all. The photos shared on Instagram were some of the ones I kept. There’s easily another box full.
Something old, something new
This act of sharing these photos on Instagram was an exercise, also, in looking at my past through my mother’s eyes. When someone dies, there’s more than the physical body that disappears. There’s a passing of perspectives. In my experience, a mother’s love is unique. I never understood this until my mom was gone. In leaving all of these pictures behind, she gave me an opportunity to see my past anew. She gave me an opportunity to see myself as she saw me. Maybe now I can look at myself through a similar lens.
All of the people we cannot see
In this dual act of public grief and celebration, there’s one last thing I’ve been trying to do. In revisiting all of these versions of “me,” I’m struck by how many versions there have been and by how many versions were not captured. Truthfully, I hid many selves from my mom. This felt necessary at the time, but it is not without mixed feelings today. How many selves did she never get to meet? How many selves will come and go that she’ll never get to know?
For her part, my mom hid many selves from me, also. She was so many different people, and I only got to meet a few of them. This, I wonder, might be the way of things. It’s difficult to see so many people all at once. It’s impossible to carry them all with you.
When my mom passed, it had been over a year since I’d last seen her in person. We had, as the expression goes, grown apart. I always thought this distance was my doing, but when someone struggles with hoarding disorder, they’re walling themselves in and pushing the world out, consciously or not. Truthfully, it’s a complicated story that may need more unpacking.
A time to rest
For now, I can say this with certainty: my mom gave me an exceptional childhood. For that and so much more, I am so terribly grateful.
“Hi mom. I miss you. Thanks for the beautiful memories.”
Maybe now that I’ve shared these with you, I can retire some of my selves. In your eyes and from my mom’s point of view, perhaps now these selves have been given a second life, a second use. Maybe now they’ve been given a nice second home.
If you or someone you know struggles with Hoarding Disorder, here are a few resources:
- Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things by Randy O. Frost & Gail Steketee
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