My mom was a hoarder, and my siblings and I grew up buried under stuff. Now I keep my house as clean as I possibly can.

• I grew up in a house covered in stuff because of my mom's hoarding.
• Now I clean my house twice a day, and my son knows he can't wear his outside clothes in the house.

Each morning before I eat breakfast I scrub the toilet, clean the bathroom sink, wipe down all the kitchen counters, and vacuum. I put objects in their rightful places, organize the pillows on the couch, and then step back and breathe.

My goal is to feel clean. To feel worth something. Worthy of something. Of living, even, maybe.

I grew up in a double-wide trailer with three other siblings, an often absent dad, and a mom with a hoarding problem. For a time, things were just crowded. But as time went on, we became buried.

There was just a small walkway through the piles to reach our bedrooms — and even our beds were semi-buried under old newspapers, magazines, and dirty clothes. It gives me chills to think back to how things were. I recall the shower and feel my stomach turn; even the place designated for making us clean was filthy. We were literally bursting at the seams with filth. We had fleas. And I don't mean our animals had fleas — I mean we had the fleas.

Now I'm a mom myself, and I make an effort to keep my house as clean as I possibly can.

I left my house when I was 18

One of the best parts about growing up is the ability to create your own habitat. I turned 18 and flew. There was a dorm first, then a college house, and then big city apartments. And later, a tiny house for me and my tiny family.

I had always wanted a dollhouse — a living space I could control. I imagined how good it would feel to painstakingly arrange the furniture to my liking and to insist on cleanliness that no one could deny me. Nothing I didn't approve of would enter the structure. I wouldn't even let one miniature fake newspaper through the doors.

But I no longer need a dollhouse. My house is the dollhouse, and I am the master. I clean at 6 a.m. and again at midnight. I clean until my hands hurt; I clean beyond what anyone else would rationalize. I clean as much as I need to, in an attempt to undo what was done to me.

Today I can forgive my mom

Sometimes I find myself wondering how my mother could have loved us and let us live like that. Loving is not a prerequisite for perfection, and mental health is fragile. My mother must have been suffering. While I may always struggle to feel clean, I know she never intended to harm me. It's easier to forgive today than it was yesterday.

That said, it's a tightrope I walk. A black speckle on our white tile floor is enough to incite panic; crumbs under the table make my skin crawl. My 7-year-old son has learned that he is not allowed to wear his "outside clothes" inside — ever.

It's possible my need to feel clean is too tightly wound around my sense of self — which I realize in many ways could be just as destructive as the two not being related at all.

I do my best. I try to remind myself that whether or not I grew up feeling like I had actually become a piece of trash myself, I'm no longer there, in that place, fighting to rise above the garbage. I got out. I've made a beautiful little house for myself.

I wipe down every surface in my field of vision and pray that feeling clean now will be enough to fix what happened inside of me when I believed I was as undeserving of care as the space I was surrounded by.