Every few months, I get this overwhelming urge to clear out half the possessions in our home. I glance around and see a chaotic mix of forgotten toys, mismatched Tupperware, clothes that no longer fit, and a tangled mess of wires from gadgets that have long since stopped working.
The anxiety spikes when the day winds down and my children’s toys are strewn across every corner of the living room. Even if only a few items are out of place, it feels suffocating. Or on nights when my partner, bless him, tidies up, but ends up only leaning toys against the baskets instead of actually putting them away. Oh, the sensation drives me up the wall.
For me, tackling clutter is not just another chore on my to-do list, like preparing the kids’ lunches or scheduling a dentist appointment. It transforms into a full-blown panic. The mess feels like a weight on my chest, making it hard to breathe. It symbolizes all the chaos in the world that feels utterly uncontrollable, manifesting itself in the disarray of my living space.
I’ve been open about my anxiety disorder, which often leads me to perceive the world differently. The sensation that everything is on the verge of collapse drives me to restore some semblance of order in my environment. For reasons I can’t fully explain, the presence of clutter sends me into a spiral of frustration.
Part of this may stem from my upbringing. I grew up in a home where disorder was the norm; my hardworking single mom struggled to maintain cleanliness amidst her own stresses. I don’t blame her—she was doing her best—but this experience has shaped my relationship with clutter.
Perhaps I’m subconsciously attempting to rectify my chaotic childhood, filled with frequent moves and emotional turmoil. Maybe I need to create some order in my life to feel at peace.
Despite my struggles, I’ve come to accept this aspect of myself. My home isn’t the tidiest on the block, and I allow my kids to make messes. They have playdates where their entire rooms are transformed into a whirlwind of toys. I let them paint, build with blocks, and even experiment in the kitchen, flour flying everywhere.
But the crucial part is that I clean up—immediately. If I don’t, I feel the anxiety creeping back in. On days when my partner is working long hours and I’m left to juggle the kids and my own responsibilities, it becomes a challenge to maintain order. Sometimes, I let things slide: crumbs on the floor, sticky juice stains, dishes piling up.
Yet, the mess gnaws at me. It’s a physical reaction I struggle to control. As I gaze at the disorder, I can feel a headache developing, and my nerves feel like they’re on edge.
When I finally have the opportunity to clean, it’s not just a casual tidy-up—it’s a frantic attempt to regain control to stave off a potential panic attack.
Fortunately, it’s not always at that extreme level. Over the years, I’ve learned to let go of some of my rigidity. I don’t judge others for their messes. When I enter someone else’s chaotic space, I often feel at ease. It’s only my mess that gets under my skin.
I recognize that everyone has their own comfort levels with clutter, and many might consider my level of mess unacceptable. Yet, that feeling of anxiety is ever-present for me. I know I’m not alone in this experience. Many people share my aversion to clutter, even if they don’t identify as “neat freaks.”
To those who relate, I understand your struggle. You’re not striving for a pristine home to impress others; it’s about your own mental well-being. You keep your space tidy not to appear put together but to maintain your sanity. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s simply part of who you are, and it likely always will be.
Remember, you are doing great, and so am I.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s personal struggle with anxiety and the need for a clean home. The narrative explores how clutter affects mental well-being and the desire for order stemming from a chaotic upbringing. It emphasizes the importance of tidiness not for the sake of appearances but for personal peace of mind.