Until one day when her mother noticed pieces of mail had suddenly gone missing from the coffee table and cans of tomato soup were no where to be found. In that moment, a raid was conducted and months and months of hard work (and diligent hoarding) came to a close. The perpetrator was caught and charged with mail theft, shop lifting, and endangering the public, and she never stock-piled canned goods again.
In a perfect world, that would be the end of the story, but as we all know (and spoiler alert if you didn't already know) this is NOT a perfect world. It wasn't easy, but I eventually learned my lesson about the electric bills and cans of soup, the kid-sized fridge found a new home, plastic boxes replaced piles, and the rod in my closet only slightly sags under the weight of vintage prom dresses and hat boxes. To put it bluntly: I got my shit together.
Now I'm no domestic goddess (and have no interest in being a domestic goddess), but cleaning my room is no longer a 48 hour ordeal that ends with tears, hair-pulling, and a fiery tantrum.
My shopping cart survived being thrown down flight of stairs (not my doing) and is probably still in the attic somewhere, but my conveyor belt and price gun met a fateful end during a battle with a can of shaving cream. So, the lesson learned here? As my mom so wisely says, nothing in a book about child-rearing could possibly prepare you for giving birth to a hoarder. But please take my advice. If you are so (un)lucky to bring a hoarder into this fine world, don't give them a shopping cart, and for heaven's sake, put them in the bedroom with the small closet. You'll thank me later.