Markers are strewn across the kitchen floor, crumbs have taken residence on the couch, and the dishes continue to mount. My kids are in a whirlwind of activity, tearing through everything in sight, and my anxiety spikes.
In response, I engage in a thorough cleaning spree, transforming into the ultimate neat freak. I meticulously wipe every surface, vacuum like a tornado, and return items to their designated spots. Slowly, I breathe in the tranquility I’ve created, savoring the brief moments of calm that allow my worries to retreat.
I’m Hannah Reed, and hyper-cleaning is a coping strategy I rely on as I navigate my mental health challenges. I am the mother who meticulously monitors every item in our home, the partner who frequently nudges her spouse to help with chores, and the woman shaped by a tumultuous childhood that led to these behaviors.
As a cleanliness enthusiast, the stress of quarantining with my family during the pandemic has been overwhelming. Over time, I’ve learned to adapt a bit to the delightful chaos that comes with raising two young children. Some days, I let go of perfection and allow the house to remain messy while I focus on being present with my kids or tackle a long day of remote work. Yet, an inner voice still urges me to find something—anything—to clean.
These feelings trace back to a childhood filled with turmoil. I’ve spent countless hours exploring these issues with therapists and find solace in effective antidepressants. I was diagnosed with complex PTSD a year and a half ago, and each day since has been a journey toward acceptance.
Growing up, clutter was the norm. My family lived in an ever-renovating house, overwhelmed with too many pets and laundry that often reached mountainous proportions. I often sought refuge in piles of dirty clothes as a child. Holidays and birthdays were the rare occasions when we’d tidy up, usually shouldered by my dedicated mother, as my father preferred to avoid conflict by retreating to his office. Looking back as a mother myself, I now struggle to comprehend how my mom maintained her sanity amidst the chaos. The reality is, she didn’t. Alongside the dirt and disarray, I experienced waves of anxiety and shame due to the physical and emotional abuse I faced, which left me constantly fearful of making a mistake.
As I matured, I discovered that striving for perfection was my way of coping with deep-seated pain. I engaged in harmful behaviors to keep my weight down, excelled in every aspect of life, and meticulously organized my living space to appear appealing. I crafted my speech to please others, concealed my authentic emotions, and followed a career path focused on external validation.
Then, everything changed when I became a parent. I gained weight, my responsibilities shifted significantly, and my home spiraled into disarray. I fell into self-destructive patterns, experienced panic attacks, and questioned why I couldn’t regain control over my life. I turned to cleaning to fill the void left by lost productivity, only to find myself in a relentless cycle of tidying. I would clean until every surface sparkled, relish the short-lived peace, and then watch in dismay as my toddler undid all my hard work. Frustration bubbled up, and I struggled to navigate the day. I often resorted to frantic cleaning at night, hoping my husband’s late-night Netflix binges wouldn’t undo my efforts, only to wake up the next morning and start anew.
Coming to terms with my complex PTSD is an ongoing challenge. However, during the early days of parenthood, my mental health struggles were demanding my attention. I realized that creating a spotless home was merely a distraction from confronting my painful past. It took two years of listening to my needs and seeking help to begin my healing journey. While I still embrace my inner neat freak, I am learning to balance that with self-compassion and authenticity.
These days, my cleaning habits help manage my anxiety, supported by my husband, who is learning the importance of maintaining a harmonious home environment. Although he sometimes falters, he understands how crucial this balance is for my mental well-being. I still find myself cleaning with fervor, often while listening to my favorite tunes, but now I recognize that my children are not obstacles to my organization; they are reminders to pause and enjoy the moment without the need for perfection.
Being an organizer has its perks; I know where everything is, and nothing truly gets lost in our home. My children join me in cleaning, not because we demand it but because they see the value in tidiness. They are being raised by a mother who has made significant strides in her mental health journey and is unafraid to show her true self. They get to enjoy a mom who finally prioritizes making joyful memories over worrying about mess.
And while my husband may be comfortable with a bit of clutter, he loves me enough to adapt his habits. I am grateful for his support.
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Summary:
Hannah Reed reflects on her struggles with anxiety and complex PTSD, revealing how hyper-cleaning became a coping mechanism in her life as a mother. She explores her childhood experiences, the impact of raising children during a pandemic, and the importance of balancing cleanliness with self-acceptance. Through her journey, she emphasizes the significance of support from her husband and the lessons her children are learning about order and joy.