My whole life, I always thought of myself as a bit of a screw up. I was raised in a very strict household, where things always had to be spotless and neat. I never quite understood the importance of all that, and figured when I grew up I’d be more laid back, which I am. I’m no germ-phobe. I actually kind of enjoy seeing toys strewn around the house, it makes it feel homey. I pretty much like the way I am. So, no problem, right? Wrong.
While I’m comfortable with this philosophy on cleanliness, there’s always been this bitch hanging out on my shoulder, telling me I’m lazy, unorganized and sloppy. She remembers my mom’s perfect house, and reminds me that my sister’s house is perfect, just like mom’s. Why is your house so dumpy? Why do you enjoy buying from thrift stores? Don’t you know successful people buy from Pottery Barn? Why are you such a fuck up? When are you going to learn, when are you going to get your shit together, why aren’t you like EVERYBODY ELSE?
This year, I’ve been smacked in the face with a wake up call. It’s precisely that kind of thinking that caused me to become sick with an autoimmune disorder. If you do a little Googling, you’ll find that most of these disorders are thought to be caused, or made worse from stress. Coming down with an illness caused me to do some introspection and meditation, and when you meditate, you start to see the connections of things. I began to see that this internal abuse was going on almost constantly. It was making me feel stressed and worthless, not good enough to deserve the finer things in life. My reaction to that, was to run myself ragged, desperately trying to be someone who this person on my shoulder would approve of. I became exhausted physically and emotionally, and eventually, I got sick.
I realize now, all that worrying and trying to be a better housewife (for lack of a better term) was futile, that’s just not who I am, and that’s ok. My house is older. It can be really hard to make an older house look spotless, they have “character”. I like character, that’s why I bought the house, therefore, I accept my dingy-looking floors. I know they’re clean enough. So, bitch on my shoulder, get the hell off, and don’t come back. You’re not welcome in my house anymore, and I feel a whole lot lighter and happier when you’re gone.