My parents weren't hoarders, but our home was ways a wreck.
Shit would be everywhere after they fought. Shelves knocked over, picture frames broken, plates shattered. They were smokers too, so the walls were stale and dripping with nicotine sweat. My youngest sibling just became a teenager and they're still struggling to toilet train her, so the whole house smells like piss. Ashes and broken glass and pet hair and cat vomit were everywhere constantly. They would smoke while they cooked, so our kitchen counters were rarely cleaned. Clean laundry would sit in the baskets until it was worn and dirtied again. My dad worked long hours and came home and did what he could after cooking dinner. My mother is mentally ill (bpd, substance abuse, depression, anxiety, cptsd, etc.) and didn't clean as regularly as the house needed. They didn't teach me or my siblings how to properly clean. Neither of them had the energy to.
Due to us living in an apartment complex, once every couple of months they would spend all night and day deep cleaning so we wouldn't lose our home. The state of our home even after the deep cleaning still grubby and cluttered.
However, I always tried to micromanage the cleanliness of my room. It was my sanctuary. Physically and mentally. It was the cleanest room in the house. Yet the smell of smoke and piss and the lingering pet hair still kept my space under a coat of grime and stale disgustingness.
Moving out of the house a couple years ago, I was worried that I wouldn't be able to keep house. Thankfully, the man I moved in with came from a home the exact opposite of mine. His step mother always demanded things be clean and sterile. Like a picture from a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. He taught me how to clean.
There's things I'm still learning.
And during the days (... weeks.... months...) where my depression keeps me from doing the things he's taught me, my home starts to look like my parent's home.
It sickens me. I don't want to live in the mess anymore. It makes me feel like I'm still stuck there in all that misery. But my depression can immobilize me. At times, it won't even allow me to do things I enjoy doing for recreation. Cleanliness goes out of the window entirely. Usually however, this starts with me giving up on personal hygiene. And then it moves on to my house becoming disgusting.
Sorry for rambling. It's 3 AM here and I don't want to go to sleep yet. I have a feeling this wall of text wasn't super coherent.