A Clean & Orderly Home

I like a clean and orderly home. Clutter bothers me. Dirt makes me physically uncomfortable. And you wouldn't know it if you saw my home now. I haven't finished unpacking in the six-ish months I've been here. The worst part is that I haven't cleaned, other than putting dishes in the dishwasher (and occasionally wiping down the countertops) and freshening up the toilet and once or twice wiping out the bathroom sink. Yes, this shames me. It is a clear and unequivocal sign of how depressed and anxious I am and have been. (Anxiety paralyzes me as surely as depression does, making which is the culprit unobvious to observers.)

Of course, one person's clutter is another person's uncluttered and my mother definitely found my uncluttered to be her clutter, and vice versa. Mom had many dustables, which she kept displayed neatly. I dislike dusting, so I want it to be as easy and quick to do as possible, which is why I'm getting rid of many of my dustables and looking to store what's left in sealed glass cabinets. I seem to have an allergy to dust and dust mites, so I have to get rid of the dust if I want to keep breathing and refrain from coughing. And having tidy bookshelves and clean surfaces satisfies a personal aesthetic. It's also easier to find the book I want.

I like being able to find what I'm looking for in a short amount of time. Now, I waste time looking for things, time I could spend doing stuff I like to do. 

I used to keep my things picked up and orderly. My bedroom when I was a child and a teenager was tidy and clean and I had only two small drawers that were my "junk" drawers where things were higgledy piggledy. They were like small treasure chests; I did not want my entire life to be that kind of treasure chest, just those two drawers. 

Back in the day, I found that it was much easier to keep my space at the level of clean and tidy that I wanted if I kept it up at all times — putting stuff away, cleaning on a schedule. As my life fell apart, bit by bit over the years, so did my levels of clean, tidy, organized. 

For example, my first home had an oak floor in the living room. When I first moved in, I took off my shoes at the door and I swept up the floor at least every other day. It was a pleasure: I loved that floor and sweeping it was an exercise in mindfulness before I ever knew what that was. It gave me pleasure. But when things happened that caused me great pain and depression, doing anything, especially anything that gave me pleasure, became virtually impossible and my floor lost its clean and shiny look. And that made me even sadder.

A vision

In my mind, every item in my home is in its place, including clothing and shoes, and put away neatly, without being squished, squashed, or wrinkled to fit it in. My home is easy to dust because the flat surfaces have few things on them — no piles of papers, no stacks of books and magazines. The few dustables I own are arranged neatly and visibly (because otherwise why have them?) My home is easy to vacuum because there is no stuff cluttering the floor — no out-of-place shoes, no piles of magazines and books (see a theme here?), no basket of unfolded laundry, no purses or totes littering the floor. My bedroom is a haven of calmness and my closet is ordered such that I can easily find the clothes and shoes I want, as well as the out-of-season bedding and other stored items. My kitchen is clean and my counters are clear; I can make brownies any time I want without a major effort to make space. I can — and do — eat my meals at my dining table.

Bonus: it doesn't take me much time at all to keep my home in this state, because I put my shoes and clothing away when I remove them, I put my purse or tote in the space for them. I unpack sacks when I bring them in and put those items away immediately. And I go through all my mail when I bring it into the house, noting the date each bill is due, addressing other mail that needs addressing, and tossing the junk. Piles don't form.

Then money floats through my door and into my wallet and bank account. My emotional eating disappears and with it my excess weight. And I write my first novel. And oh yeah: depression and anxiety? GONE!

Ta da!

Now does anyone know someone who could help me achieve any of this? Anyone? Anyone?

**crickets**

Deep thoughts #2 --- Going ... up?

Do you ever find, after having been terribly sick or terribly down for a long time, that you resist feeling or seeming or accepting being better?

For example, I have bitten my nails most of my life and over the past decade and a half have managed to slowly make time periods between biting them longer and longer. Then last summer, when the troubles began to get worse, I began biting my nails again. I bit all of them, at some point, to the point of pain. 

A friend recently pointed out how they are growing again. "No they aren't," I said, pointing to the shortest one. "I bit this off just recently." "Yes," she said, "but I see white on all of them."

I wanted to argue with her. I'm not letting my nails grow. I'm still biting them because I'm Not Better Yet! I'm not getting better!

Why? Why would I resist any sign that I may be rising from the Abyss? Why would I want to continue to be or appear to be suffering or ill or unbelievably depressed?

Maybe I'm afraid that if I seem to be getting better, then no one will have patience with me if I'm not completely better — Now! — and all the time hereafter. Or maybe they'll think I was malingering: how long do you have to be in a Bad Place or State before you have legitimacy?

Or maybe I'm afraid I'm doing a disservice to my mom's memory by getting better now. Or maybe to myself in some odd way: if I'm well now, was I really that down and unreachable or was it really just ... all in my mind. Nerves. All those things that say I'm just a hypochondriac or just trying to get attention. Or maybe that I'm actually crazy. But something.

I have honestly turned the corner and I want to live now. That's an amazement in itself.

I'm still not doing my homework regularly, but I believe that my sleeping sickness over my vacation trumps that. Once I have the sleepiness under control and am feeling more me-normal again, the new "better-ness" will be more perceptible.

I'm going to show it off. Let others make their own judgments. I've been down to the Abyss yet again — my third time? my fourth or fifth? — and I beat it yet again. How many others can say that?

Losing it

The cruelest thing about mental illness is the loss of one's true self. Trauma such as sexual abuse can have the same effect: you mask or hide your true self for survival.

At one time, long, long ago, I was a cheerful, outgoing, talkative little girl. I was bright enough that the school considered bumping me over 3rd grade. I wish they had: I had social issues even among my own grade-mates. Jumping a year wouldn't have hurt me that way at all. And I was so all-consumingly bored by everything but math — and that just stomped me into the ground.  So all that boredom squashed me a bit. Don't stand out. Eventually I took only the classes I knew I could get As in so as to please my parents.

But the effects of the abuse hit me at puberty and I became shy and awkward and tended to slouch and mumble by about the age of 10 or 11. My parents couldn't even get me to take the check up to the restaurant cashier and pay it; I wouldn't go without my brother. Thus began my social phobia and ended my fearlessness.

I wasn't supposed to use the words or the knowledge that I had from reading or my gifted class — that was showing off and unacceptable. (My parents probably didn't understand everything I said by the time I was 12.) But my brother could show off any physical prowess he had. That was okay.

I wasn't supposed to correct adults, even if the teacher was teaching something wrong or an adult went back on what they said. Squash. I lost my vocabulary. I lost a lot of my brightness; I became dull.

At least I kept my room clean and tidy. Very. I liked clean and tidy and organized, even when I became a teen. No tossing clothes around and being a general slob.

I was a bit untidy in my mid-20s, when i shared a house with two guy friends. I was so miserable, still borderline suicidal (still considered it an option if I couldn't handle things), no boyfriend so I felt ugly and unloved. I began keeping my clothing in a nest around me in my bed — a queen mattress on the floor. I liked my weird-shaped room in the attic but I froze in the winter. That might have sparked the nesting.

When my best friend Steve and I shared an apartment together, I kept my space and the house clean and tidy in partnership with Steve. He, too, has always been neat and tidy, so it was easy to be that way. And I was that way with Marlys when I roomed with her. I wasn't too untidy when I moved in with Thom, but he kept all his computer stuff in a mess, so it began.

When I moved into my own house in my early 30s, at first I was very tidy. That's what I like. I loved sweeping the old oak floors. I loved that house. But then I hit a major depression, so bad that I even took two leaves of absence from work for mental health reasons. My house became the Pit of Chaos. My Mom and her second husband came and helped me clean up once. I tried, but was only able to keep parts of my home clean. Never the kitchen. I stopped cooking much at all. This continued to the coast and was the worst ever in my little apartment at the end of my life on the coast; I never even unpacked for the year I lived there. I felt lost and hopeless and terrified, with a wide-open future in front of me. Being alone in my apartment where I live now, I achieved only moderate tidiness, but it was better than nothing. I was still over-stressed. I had lost the tidy, organized, happy me.

When I moved back to Oregon to take care of Mom, I wanted to keep the tidiness up to her standards. It was bad enough she had to deal with cancer; i wasn't going to make her uncomfortable with clutter. So I kept things up fairly well. Mom had a cleaner come every other week, which was very helpful because that was beyond me. I didn't cook much for us. But I kept the clutter to a minimum and mom was comfortable in her beloved home with the brand-new kitchen until she died.

Return to Houston: my home hasn't been this bad since those bad days in Seattle in the house I loved. There are papers, mostly mail and discarded empty envelopes, all over the floor. No single surface is clean and tidy. My clothes are piled in bins and on the white wire shelf in the closet. No, I don't have a chest of drawers, or enough shelves in the book shelf. I don't use the desk because it has the TV and more stuff on top of it.

I hate this, hate this, hate this. I want clean and tidy. I want my life to be simple and easy to maintain. The times when I've achieved that, even briefly, I have experienced peacefulness and happiness. To say that this mess is contributing to my depression and anxiety is an understatement. But I don't have the energy to pick up. I'm behind on my bills, on the estate's bills. I don't even know where they all are. I am unhappy in part because my home is a mess, and when I'm this unhappy I cannot keep it clean and organized: it's a Catch-22.

I need help. Don't seem able to provide it to myself; that's something else I've lost.

Are any of those things even findable?

I used to be so good

When I was younger, I was a morning person. I kept my living space — bedroom, dorm room, apartment, house — clean and organized. When I made a commitment, I met it.

When I started having problems with anxiety and depression, particularly in my early 30s at the Job From Hell, I started calling in sick when I didn't want to do something, mostly because of severe anxiety or depression. I began backing out more and more. It became more routine for me to break a commitment rather than to meet one. 

Over the course of a couple of decades, I became a person different from the person I knew I was. Knowing this added to my feelings of depression.

When I determined that I would change my life, I determined that I would change that aspect, too. And I did ... for awhile.

I called in sick a couple of times to a new job last summer, and I'm not sure why. Stress. But I got back to doing better. 

Then I was two weeks late for a project quote because I let my mental state command me. And today I backed out of a meeting and let someone else keep notes for me. I have yet to talk to her about it because I slept for four hours this afternoon — another way I have of avoiding what pains or stresses me.

I'm late on every one of my bills and those of the estate's. I owe money to the Steps to cover their tax burden from one of our bequests. I not only didn't get my taxes done, I didn't manage to file for an extension either.

I can barely breathe.

At this rate, it wouldn't be difficult for me to simply take to my bed for a few weeks. Except that I do need to at least pretend I'm looking for work. 

Dear god I hope the house sells soon. I don't know if a bit more financial security will make a difference in my personal integrity or not. I'm not sure what will.

Faith?

I'm not very good at faith. I have a scientific mind. However, I used to be a "true believer" type: faeries, Santa, good government, UFOs, true love, and unicorns. These two aspects do create a bit of cognitive dissonance.

Life has rather kicked the faith right out of me. When I encounter others who believe in things, whether it's a deity or true love, part of me is sure that person is deluded. The other part of me is envious. I guess that makes me Fox Mulder: I want to believe. Blind faith, however, has never suited me.

Given that information, you may be surprised to hear that I think I am feeling better. I have very limited, subjective evidence, and many adjectives: kind of, maybe, a little bit, perhaps. But I felt good after therapy the other day; I felt like myself. Actually, it was a little weird. I walked like I used to walk, long swinging steps, head held high. I felt light. There was something different physically. (It didn't last long, but that's a different story.)

Add to that anecdotal evidence is that fact that I seem to be less depressed. I think I've gotten off the couch more today. When off the couch, I made movements that one might interpret as dancing. Just a little. Maybe. Kind of.

It's possible that I'm turning the corner, with my new therapy and my higher dosages of medication. But I have no actual proof, yet. Maybe if I believe, perhaps, I'll get better because I believe.

That would be really great because then I could stop taking the medications, right?

Hibernation of the Soul

I feel as if my spirit is in hiding. The true me, the authentic me, went underground years ago and I'm excavating, trying to find her, hoping she's neither dead nor fossilized.

I've experienced a lot of shitty, horrible things in my life, but for most of it I remained bright, positive, cheery, sunny. I had energy and I didn't have impulse control, especially toward eating. I was healthy and active and at a comfortable weight. I rode my bike or walked because I wanted to, because I enjoyed it.

Sometimes, I walked or drove or rode as far as I could because I was trying to escape the pain that chased after me, the pain from those shitty, horrible things. I kept going because I knew that happy existed and that, if I could figure out how, if I could escape the pain, I could be happy again.

The geologic layers that cover my true self have grown thicker over the years, and my back is sore and old from shoveling. I still have hope about finding my self, but I admit the hope is dimmer and more desperate.

I am very tired.

Mixed blessings, mixed bag

Today was a good day, in the beginning. I got up before 10 am. The sun was out. I went to my therapy appointment. I went for a walk after, bought groceries. Then I was done. I'd accomplished things successfully. Didn't want to push my luck.

But in therapy we didn't get around to the trauma work. I dislike pauses and I tend to talk too much in therapy, especially when I feel nervous, which can even happen with an established therapist. I think it's when I know there is a challenging topic on the agenda. We did talk about other things, and I told her some stories about childhood, which filled in more of my history. We talked about how I've missed some developmental steps, which leave me having trust issues, clingy-dependency issues, and having very real difficulties relating to people and establishing relationships. Often times it seems I completely miss social cues, or know they are there but do not understand them. I'm not sure if I will ever really learn them, but it would be nice to get better than I am. Or else I'll be stuck having a peer group that tops out at nine years old.

Then came the less than good part. I ate ice cream. A lot of ice cream. My bed is littered with clothing (mostly pants) that is too small for me, because of the 15+ pounds I've put on. In fact, I am eating some ice cream again, late at night, near to bedtime, which is not a good time to eat.

Karen and I talked about my depression, which is something she has difficulty seeing or imagining, because I've been "up" when I've seen her. I explained to her that I'm still riding high from going birding with a good friend, and that I am feeling a little better. But also because I don't like to show negative feelings, even to therapists. I think I've cried maybe a handful of times in front of therapists, in all these many years (decades). My first therapist commented on how I really didn't fit the profile of a depressed person, because I can still get excited about things and occasionally do things.

I'm just being me, the one who doesn't fit any mold.

I have difficulties with vulnerability. I've been trashed so thoroughly by people I've been vulnerable to, since a very early age. And yet, without vulnerability, there can be no deep connection to others, and that's the kind of connections I want. If I appear to need nothing, then people aren't going to feel that I need their friendship. Or, perhaps, that I will have any to offer them.

I became so good at protecting myself and masking my vulnerability that I built an entire world inside myself, with a many-layered fortified castle. With creatures. I could describe it to you, but I won't. I may need it again.

Because being vulnerable is difficult and frightening. I'll need some place to feel safe, when the vulnerability gets me into painful places. Because it always does.

I wanna walk like you, talk like you

I've been singing lately. Well, I often do. The latest song that keeps coming to mind is from The Jungle Book (Disney animated, many years ago).

Oh I'm the King of the Swingers

The Jungle VIP

I want to be a man like you

and that's what's botherin' me.

Oh you-u-u

I wanna be like you-u-u

I wanna walk like you, talk like you

....

And that's where my memory runs out. I like that the song is bouncy and energetic and silly. Those are qualities that I would associate with myself, if I were myself.

I want to get back to myself.

As a child, I was happy, cheerful. I was extremely bright and creative and was always creating something, whether it was doll clothes or stories or artwork. If I'd had LEGO, I would have been building things. I had a toy where you poured plastic liquid into molds and cooked them until hot; you could burn yourself, but you learned not to. And no, my parents did not supervise, even tho' I was only 8. I'm not sure if that was laziness on their part or trust that I could handle it. Same with my chemistry set when I was 12. Fun times!

I was fairly solitary as a child, unfortunately. There were no girls close to me in age in my neighborhood and the boys didn't always want to play with a girl, especially once my younger brother got older. Sure, he was lots younger than the other boys, but he was a genius when it came to sports, and I was pathetic. Who do you think they wanted to play with?

All my friends from school lived a fair distance away and no one arranged play dates back then. You were just stuck with whoever was nearby and if no one was nearby, you were out of luck. Except on those rare times when you could arrange an after school play time. Those were some of the most memorable times of my childhood.

I'm still unfortunately and involuntarily solitary. I guess it's just one of the curses of my life. But I want to get back to being able to occupy myself pleasurably, be creative, and able to play and be happy alone. I skated, ran, climbed all on my own. No reason I can't do that now. Once I get through the crap in my head that forms the brambles and walls separating who I've become from who I am and could be.

I wanna be like me.