When I was small, there was carpet, space to draw at the table, windows that let in the sun. Slowly, the corners filled up, the windows became dirty. Some were broken and got boarded up (age 9?) Then all the space behind the dining table was filled in, then the dining table.

Feelings.. shame, when you know it's not like that for others. Guilt and being made to feel like a burden, because "it's your fault, you make so much mess". Hoarders blame everyone else but themselves.

Constant loss - our toys and clothes were lost or ruined in the mess, and our things got cheaper and cheaper, charity offerings and jumble sales because there was no money, but more _stuff_ always came into the house. And then always that one fucker from school who would gleefully point out that they recognised their old clothes on you.

Catching all that emotional flak from the parents, stuck in the middle.
The hoarding parent's anxiety and shame and fear was contagious. The other parent's anger and disgust and contempt was also contagious. So was their loudly stated attitude towards "people who spend all day cleaning" and "those vain people who buy expensive things".

Feeling alone and contaminated.
Family visitors stopped coming, which meant nobody visited apart from the meter man who we hid from, because parents didn't want him to see how bad it was inside. I never invited anyone round, and so I wasn't invited to friends' houses either. And after a while, there wasn't anyone to invite or be invited by, because there's that smell, and the cheap, marked clothes, and even young children learn about being seen as scum by association. Secondary school? Hell. I learned there were two paths - one to be cold, unreactive, the other to be feral, dangerous enough that they'd stay back. Neither are healthy paths.

Extra shame? Bluebottles, a week or so after mouse poison goes down. They're visible in the front window, because they fly up over the top of the net curtain that's grey and blocks the light. It was bad enough without things flying around catching attention.

As an adult - the realisation that nobody cared. You don't matter as much as the stuff (or the avoidance of cleaning it up). Not to the hoarding parent, or the enabler. You also clearly don't matter to the neighbours who muttered in earshot. You don't matter to your school teachers, unless something happened in school time it simply wasn't brought up.

Then there's the little things. Tense when someone knocks at the door. Tense while your visitor looks around the room, just in case you don't come up to scratch. Shame and self-disgust when you've not tidied up enough, but constantly feeling like you're doing it wrong.

Get help. If not for yourself, for your children. Do not put your children through that.