I was raised as an only child of a bi-polar. While I have four brothers, the oldest were out of the house while I was still young and the youngest were my father's and lived elsewhere. This situation left quite a few things to be desired in my childhood, but it taught me a few useful things; one of which was the fact that manual labor and a good old fashioned cry is good for the soul. Hand in hand, cleanliness is next to godliness.
When I'm stressed to my limits, I find that I revert to comforting things...the smell of something baking or bleach. The choice to bake or clean is dependent upon my pissedoffedness levels. The angrier I am at my stressors, the more intense my need to clean. Normally, my house is in a general state of "tidy" with random dust or cat hair that would be acceptable to most. Occasionally, my house is clean enough to make Mommy Dearest uber proud. Bring it Faye Dunaway! And rarely, rarely...cleaning my house isn't enough to rid my inner demons. I need a hoarder.
In instances of intense stress, junking items in my own home will no longer do. No longer do I derive satisfaction from ousting my husband's week old receipts. Nevermore will chucking out my kids' stickers while muttering to myself curb this random need.
I yearn to get my hands on a hoarder's mother-load and I see this proposal as a mutually beneficial relationship. Have an Aunt Phyllis who has been pack ratting into her hidey-hole for the last 40 years? I have unresolved rage that needs to be purged. Know Clyde whose collection of trinkets has made it impossible to vacuum? Strangely, in this mode - I enjoy cleaning grout with a toothbrush. What luck!
Every item I can shuck into a garbage bag lifts the burden that weighs on my shoulders. Every bizarre knickknack or 20 year old tube of Neosporin I can trash makes me realize that my stress and current source of discontent is really inconsequential. Ultimately, the literal cleaning meets the figurative and I can let go.
Somewhere between the Pine-sol and the tattered vestiges of my sour attitude, I can just cry it out. In the end I feel loads better and Grandma Millie's kitchen is again usable...So, can I come clean your stuff?
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