Sometimes people believe that psychologists and other therapists have always had their ducks in a row. We don't. We should at least be working on our stuff, though, trying to understand and work through our garbage.
Deb Derrickson Kossmann literally and figuratively works through her family's garbage in Lost Found Kept. Her mother was a detail-oriented, organized nurse, but prevented her daughters from coming in her house for decades. They worried about her, but she was clearly a competent person. In 2016, however, they discovered that she had no phone, no water, maybe no heat, had been defecating in bags, and hoarding important things and trash in such a way that they were lost or damaged.
It was clear it was bad, but she was an autonomous person and refused all our offers of help. And as I’m telling my friend this, I feel shame, the shame of my own failure to help my mother the way she needed…. She didn’t want therapy or medication. She chose to hide the secret and it just got bigger and bigger like the mess. Was it derelict to let her live the way she wanted? Was this neglect necessary for me to be able to separate from her? (pp. 255-256).
This is the difficult balance all of us face when our loved ones have mental health problems: how much can I, should I intervene? Am I overstepping my bounds or am I "helping" to meet my own needs?
I love that Kossmann considers multiple explanations – and also that she recognizes that her mother's hoarding is multiply determined, serving multiple purposes.
In the middle of digging through this shit – literal and metaphorical – it is easy to believe that you won't get through. What does Kossmanm discover?
I’ve lost some of the patience I used to have. I don’t mince words anymore. By doing enough, I have been freed of being responsible for somebody else’s mess. I’m only responsible for my own, and that’s enough. Sometimes, I regret being harsh with my mother and wish we could have done things differently, the way all the psychological books about hoarding cleanups advise. I feel sad that I was angry. I have gained so much appreciation for the husband who shoveled next to me, who recently built me a sun porch with wide windows where light streams in and comfortable chairs where I sit writing these words. He doesn’t see or treat me as something to be torn up or thrown away. And I have finally fully allowed myself to believe that I am to be treasured and kept. (p. 264).
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I am currently going through a loved one's things – Seven leather jackets? How many guitars and ukuleles? – and Kossmann's book reminds me that this continuum is not a dichotomous neat and tidy vs. hoarding. My loved one's things are "more normal, like a disorganized storage unit" (p. 176).
I sometimes worry about reviewing a friend's book – and Deb is a good friend, even though she lives across the state from me. This was an easy review to write and, while I knew large parts of her story beforehand, maybe even seeing her video when she was first excavating (or maybe I've just created this memory from her stories???), it was a pleasure to read Lost Found Kept, a story that's different than that told over dinner and wine.