My kids often express their frustration when they can’t find the glasses they used at breakfast. You’ll catch me swiftly closing closet and pantry doors behind them before they’re even finished. Any important school paper left out gets neatly tucked away in a drawer, and if leftovers linger in the fridge too long, they’re gone.
My relentless need for order can be overwhelming. I’m not quite sure where it originated. Perhaps it began when I was seven and a mishap with a plantar wart led to my little sister accidentally consuming some medicine I had left out. That night was chaotic; my dad was on the phone with poison control, and I felt utterly helpless as I watched my sister’s pajamas get burned. From that moment on, nothing ever stayed out of place.
There was also a time we stayed with friends whose home was in disarray—filthy, sticky, and oddly odorous. As a military child, I often found refuge in the homes of my father’s friends, but this particular house weighed heavily on me. At just six years old, I instinctively started cleaning, hoping to banish the unsettling feelings that enveloped me.
As I grew older, my desire for control intensified. I became fixated on counting calories, restricting myself to a strict 1200 a day, while ensuring my room was immaculate. My daily routine included early workouts and after-school jobs, and I’d berate myself if I didn’t earn enough tips or achieved less than stellar grades.
By the age of sixteen, the pressure to maintain perfection was relentless. I could control my environment—my room’s cleanliness and my food choices—but it took years to learn to ease some of that pressure. I eventually stopped obsessively measuring my food and learned to accept less-than-perfect grades. I felt happier and more fulfilled, but my instinct to tidy remained.
My ex-husband would often test me by subtly rearranging items in our home. One time, he moved some beach rocks I had carefully placed by the tub. It took me mere seconds to notice, and while we laughed about it, I felt a twinge of despair at how much it affected me.
When I post pictures online, I’m not trying to impress anyone; my home’s tidiness is simply how I live. When visitors comment on my organized space, I feel more shame than pride. It’s a visible marker of my struggle with control. I often wonder what would happen if I let things slide. Would I be seen as lazy? Would chaos ensue?
I constantly apologize to my kids for my need to maintain order. I’m working on it—allowing their glasses to stay on the table or letting them make a mess in their rooms. But I want anyone entering my home to understand: my spotless house isn’t a reflection of superiority. It’s rooted in my anxiety, and I’m still figuring out how to coexist with it.
If you’re interested in learning more about decluttering and its impact on mental health, you can check out this resource on decluttering. For those curious about pregnancy resources, this link offers excellent information on IVF and home insemination as well.
If you’re navigating similar experiences, you might find these topics worth exploring:
- How to maintain a clutter-free environment
- Coping strategies for anxiety
- The benefits of organization for mental wellness
- Finding balance in motherhood
- Tips for managing household chaos
In summary, my anxiety drives my urge to keep a tidy home, but it’s not something I take pride in. It’s a coping mechanism that I’m learning to navigate, and I hope to create a space where my children feel comfortable being themselves.