When some people become stressed they run, others take a bath or watch TV. Me? I clean. I clean anything and everything. I systematize. I categorize. I organize. And in the end, I find myself in a fresh-smelling, controlled space. Suddenly, all feels right in the world. However, since my own life is already so organized, I find myself delving into the lives and worlds of others around me in an attempt to clean and organize them.
Outsiders view this coping technique as a gift. I mean really, who wouldn’t want to live with someone who was constantly cleaning up? But those who know me well – especially those who live with me – may be swiffering to a different tune. Since I am such a clean and organized person, I often can’t fathom why others aren’t just as clean as me. Why can’t dishes be washed immediately after use? Why can’t blankets be folded after a night on the couch? Why can’t toothpaste be washed down the drain? And as much as I enjoy picking up, I become angry as I find more and more to do, which in turn stresses me out more. Therefore, I have to clean more to depreciate my stress level. I venture farther out into the realm of filthiness that surrounds me, and the cycle perpetuates itself until I transform into something of a Mr. Clean-inspired hulk, reeking of bleach and lemon-scented Pledge.
I was never this fanatical about cleanliness. There was a time around sixth grade when I refused to put things away, refused to clean up after myself and refused to wear anything but my cargo wind pants (mostly because I could spill anything on them and just wipe it off). My mom was going insane as I spiraled deep into a world of germs and clutter. But she never gave up on me.
One wintery week I went to a log cabin with my sixth grade class where we spent the week hiking and ice skating and learning about nature. I saw this as a week to prove to my parents that my 11-year-old self was independent, but my mom saw this week as an opportunity to attack my messy room and prove to me that clean was the way to go. I came home to cubbies, labels, and the discovery that underneath those piles of clothes I refused to adorn, I actually had hardwood floors. I was hooked.
Since then my lockers have been pristine, my planner has been color-coded and every honor society in which I have held office has had its own tabbed binder. I organize my closet Roy G. Biv style and my desk looks more like a Staples aisle than a college-student’s desk. The older I get, the more stressed I become, and my life becomes more organized and compartmentalized.
Some may scoff and say it’s OCD, but in reality I know they are just secretly jealous of my high-level of cleanliness. But I really wouldn’t stress about it. |
