It's a State of Mind...and Body

The state of my house is reflection on my state of mind--and if that doesn't frighten people, there's no hope.

I grew up with the neatfreaks of all neatfreaks. My parents have white carpeting. My mother used to clean the kitchen sink and then not let us--my father and me--use it the rest of the day. You could safely lick the linoleum in their house--in any corner--without fear. Everything was gleaming, dust-free, folded, put away, stacked, and smelling of Clorox and dryer sheets.

I hated it.

Until...you guessed it...I got out on my own. After spending years driving my mother crazy, I, myself, became the neatfreak in college, terrorizing my own roommates. I cleaned for fun--and no, I'm not kidding. I enjoyed it. I'd clean my friends' apartments given half a chance (and I could find that half a chance anywhere).

It my way of controlling my life without actually dealing with the important things. I was a complete basket case, but damn...my apartment? Spotless.

Roll ahead a few years, and things changed...now I was much more mentally healthy. Happy, even, and busy (so had my parents been, by the way--they were both professionals who worked a lot and still managed a spotless home). My life began to move; my junk began to stay put.

But, I managed, for most of those years, to find a happy medium between cheery clutter and cleanliness that worked. By the end of my first marriage, however--to a packrat who, paradoxically, had a pathological need for symmetrical order--things were...messy. In every possible way.

Cleaning out from that marriage was emotional and physical. Between the divorce and the selling of the house to move across the state, I can't remember how many dumpsters I filled with...stuff. My father, bless his heart, would drive to my house while I was gone during the day and just absolutely raze everything. I joked that if the cats were still for more than fourteen seconds, they'd be gone, too.

(My father is the exception to the norm for Depression-era children; he doesn't horde anything and he doesn't believe in keeping anything old (except photographs). You should see his garage. Monk could live in it.)

So...new life, new marriage, new career, new town, new house in Marshall, seven years ago. Things started out well. It was clean, and it was cluttered only because it was about a fifth of the size of my house in St. Cloud before, but I'd gotten rid of much extraneous stuff. I felt great! My house looked great!

Despite my working a gazillion hours a week during the school year, it stayed that way. Despite my new husband, who's a self-avowed slob (which he is, but I will not complain because the man does all the shopping, all the cooking, all the taking-care-of-me-because-I'm-incapable, and that's a difficult job), it stayed that way.

Until about three years ago.

I got sick. A lot. In the last three years or so I've been diagnosed with three chronic, life-altering (to a degree), incurable diseases that affect my daily life to varying levels. I've been hospitalized several times. I've had two miscarriages. I've had eight surgeries. I've had two separate biopsies (fine). I've spent more money, miles, and minutes in doctors' offices and various clinics and such than I could even follow.

Things got...messy.

And I've not been able to keep up. And then it got worse, and I really wasn't able to keep up.

For nearly two years now, my house has been mostly unlivable (for me). I hate this. And I don't know where to start, and even when I have time (summer, Christmas vacation), I don't have the physical energy.

We are overwhelmed. I hate going home.

My classroom? Orderly, for the most part. I like things in their place. I dislike clutter. I used to deliver mail, and my sorting case was immaculate. My supervisors used to show mine to newbies as an example, and I was, more than once, enlisted to physically organize other routes when they changed and needed upkeep.

My house? Two adults and four cats--and no children to blame it on--is a disaster. We occasionally make little dents of happiness (I get the kitchen and bathroom cleaned, for example, or there's a path to the couch and only a few books and newspaper on it to clear off if you don't mind walking around the back side of the coffee table), but I long for having the whole house clean and organized once again.

So, that's my story. Can I be one of you?!?

Ready, Set, Go!

I'm in the same boat as Gette. I never really learned to keep a clean house consistently, and for some reason, I rebel against routine. Consistency and routine are the only ways to keep a house consistently and routinely tidy, but I've always lived more by the seat of my pants, a slave to the urgent.

I was the same way in school. I did only what had to be done and always at the last minute. Maybe it's unfortunate that it served me so well. The lesson I learned there was I could get by with minimal effort and excel.

Oddly, when I worked outside the home, my desk and my office were very organized and neat. People would comment that I must have an immaculate home, and I would roar with laughter. I think there are two reasons my office was so neat. 1) I had a routine driven by deadlines. Organization was not a luxury, it was the only way to make sure our vendors were paying for their product. The people I worked for got a little testy if our customers weren't paying their bills or if I couldn't tell them how much moolah we had coming in every day. 2) There was no one else at work messing up my space, and it was MY space, the only place where I had complete control. I've never been able to work well in chaos.

I've been able to figure out why I avoid digging in and clearing clutter. I'll save that for another day.

Here we go...

I am a slob. I have several theories as to why I am a slob. My mother never taught me how to keep house; her mother never taught her. Seriously, any housework that got done was because of my dad. When he died, my mother's home was like one of those garbage houses they show on the news, albeit not crammed quite so full of stuff. Just clutter and filth. My brother and sister's homes are still like that. My house is not like that, thank heaven, yet, whenever we get a call that company is coming, we issue a red alert and scramble to make the house presentable, and sometimes it is a real struggle. Whatever. I am sick of living in a dump. I try "systems" and "plans," but they haven't worked well for me as yet.
In my email today was a list of articles from Dulcinea about organization and decluttering. There's a market out there for this information; other people want help with this stuff, too. Not everyone grew up in a cluttered house. Some folks had a perfectly lovely home life, but no-one there taught them how to do it for themselves; the parents took care of it so the kids wouldn't have to. Some people have pack-rat personalities and amass too much stuff. Some poeple have mental or physical limitations that inhibit their ability to maintain order in their homes. There are many reasons for the same problem.
Over Christmas break, I made some progress, but I live in constant fear of backsliding. Lately, I have been getting messages through different sources about accountability, so that is why I am here. I started a new blog because I don't want my other blog to become a daily whine about "here's what I cleaned." I want to make that place funny and light. But I do believe it helps me to put my accomplishments and failures out there to share. To keep me motivated. To maybe help someone else. That's why I'm here. Join me if you understand.