I've got to take responsibility for what goes through my mind at any given moment. Instead of automatically going to guesswork, I have to rein in the evidence. My stab at the truth is like picking up a bow, putting on a blindfold, and flinging arrows hither and yon in the general direction I believe hosts the bullseye.
My new client starts apologizing from the moment I step across the threshold. "The place is a mess, I've just gotten home from a trip and not unpacked. I'm not prepared to have company. I see what you do from your website and you must think I'm terrible." She hardly stops to take an in-breath. "It's alright," I insist, I don't have my Sorted Affairs goggles on yet."
I do glance around, curious as to what she decides is so unsightly. Nothing seems out-of-order, no piles of anything in view, let alone what I'd consider hoarding. No cardboard boxes lying around, no scattered papers, fruit flies not zooming around, no clumps of hair lurking in the corner, no dying vegetables on the countertops, no crusts of upchucked pet food, not one pile of dirty laundry visible. I even turn my head to take-in the sink, nope, not a dirty dish or fork available. Certainly, a hoarder's household smell alone tends to give 'em away. Nothing ghastly wafting around.
We tour the house in it's entirety. Not a throw pillow out-of-order. Not a loose coin in the den, family room, bathrooms, hallways, staircase, laundry area, patio, yard, not even the closet that poked open as we spun by looked "a mess." The thing I kept wondering, "What's she hiding?" Perhaps a dead relative, a stash of excess tp, family jewels no one else knows she's glommed-onto, cans of outdated goods for the end of the world. Either that or she's got major Neat Freak Syndrome and could use some support with that!
I actually don't get attached the idea of hoarding. Hoarders get a lot of leeway from me; compassion, sympathy, help, resources, support, and a hell of a lot of my experience. Whether they want it or not. Spread my stuff all over 'em like peanut butter dribbling-off the edges of a bagel. It isn't every day someone's foibles are in plain view, hoarders are actually quite refreshing. The struggle of insecurities, heart-stopping anxieties, buying addiction, and sense of lack glare about the place. It's quite evident.
Normally, folks keep things in-check, until we drink too much, snort something strong, take a pill, don't get enough sleep, starve ourselves, bask in solo time too often, or are not coping well with our anger. Then, WATCH OUT, everything on our minds comes flying out of our mouths, into the wind, and the drift catches everyone within earshot off-guard. Witnesses are tossed and turned, flung aside, and discounted. It's so hearty, the reality, flammable really, tastes heavy and thick, deflects lies.
I have to manage my brain activity. Communicate the truth versus accept the assumptions that spin out of a teacup carnival ride I created. It's so disingenuous to put those crazy schemes out in the sun, exposed.
Giving my client a positive connection, complimenting her space, the energy, her selection of color and accents helps dissolve her angst. The more I can offer, reach out with empathy, I also feel good. We can only smile bigger and share experiences with one another. The shoulders drop, she stops scanning the house for errors, mistakes, marks on her soul. She sighs like a NOT GUILTY verdict was presented to her after a long trial.
And, by the way, even if I do THINK she's a hoarder, it doesn't mean it's the truth.