CONFESSIONS OF A HOARDER LYNN HOWELLS

Though I have hoarded for the majority of my life, it was only when my father asked to move in with me three years ago that I realised I would have to make some major changes.

My mother had died a few years earlier and he no longer wanted to live alone. But every room in my home was stacked high with items I was unable to throw away, either because I thought they would come in useful, or I felt guilty that I had spent money on them.

Save for the kitchen and bathrooms, my house was full: stacks of old newspapers, books, payslips and bills were stored in carrier bags, clothes and handbags piled high, as well as a large collection of bears. You couldn’t walk between the dining room and the lounge, even though they are connected.

My compulsion began around the age of

11, when my father’s work took my family to Tehran and I was sent to boarding school. It was before the days of cheap flights and Skype, and I couldn’t cope with the distance, so I started collecting things like books and posters, which made my room feel homely. My family just thought I was a messy teenager. Then, when I went to college, no one was watching me and I began to amass entire rooms in which my items were piled high. In every house since, I have had rooms that can’t be used for their intended purpose.

Dad’s moving in has meant that now, aged 58, I have some control over my hoarding at last. I set myself a timer and eventually cleared all but one bedroom and the shed.

I have a set of rules that help me throw things away, like looking up stories online instead of keeping newspapers, though that’s not to say I don’t still find it hard to stop the pile of clothes on my bed from mounting.

My sister has been really supportive, but Dad still thinks I need to tidy up and, when I go to the hoarding support group I help run, he says things such as: “Did people give you more things to bring home and keep?” Like so many people, I don’t think he appreciates what a problem it truly is.