When The Clutter Talks Back
Let me start with a confession: I hate cleaning.
Not the cute, "ugh, I hate cleaning" people say while they light a candle and organize a drawer.
I mean, I hate it.
If I could pay someone to do every single chore in this house forever, I'd swipe the card without hesitation. But here's the problem — when my house is a mess, my brain is a mess.
The dishes pile up, my patience disappears, and I can't focus on anything until it's done.
I don't clean because I enjoy it. I clean because if I don't, I can't function…
So yeah, I clean. I organize. I scrub. I do all the things I resent, because chaos ruins me faster than any chore ever could.
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I wish I could be one of those people who shrug at a messy house and move on with life.
But I can't.
When things are out of order, so am I. Every pile of laundry, every stack of papers, every sticky countertop — it all screams at my brain that I'm behind, that I'm failing, that I'll never catch up.
And yet… There's one thing I don't mind.
The laundry.
It's the only chore I do perfectly.
Every towel is folded with the edges lined up just right. Every shirt is stacked evenly. Every blanket creased sharply enough to make a hotel jealous.
Because it's the only thing I have complete control over.
The rest of my day might be chaos — kids yelling, dinner burning, deadlines blurring — but the laundry? The laundry listens.
It stays where I put it. It folds exactly how I want—unless the dog decides to reenact a tornado drill and drag it all across the floor.
It's predictable. And in a world that never feels that way, that matters.
Sometimes I even find myself enjoying it. Not always — sometimes the piles sit there for days while I pretend not to see them — but when I do fold, it's grounding. Rhythmic. Like my brain finally exhales.
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Everything else, though? Torture.
The dishes, the mopping, the endless "stuff" that multiplies when I'm not looking — I hate all of it.
But here's the brutally honest truth: if I don't do it, I fall apart. I can't write. I can't think. I can't even sit still.
So I clean. I organize. I rage-tidy my way through rooms that refuse to clean themselves—because clutter and disorder don't just bug me… they make my brain feel unsafe.
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What people don't see is how emotional it all is.
The mess isn't just "stuff." It's the leftovers of all the moments I didn't have the energy for.
The nights I was too tired to wash the dishes.
The mornings I couldn't fold another load because I was busy holding myself together.
And then there's the guilt. Because once you finally can clean, it all stares back at you like, "What took you so long?"
So no, it's not about being neat. It's about trying to quiet a world that's too loud — one drawer, one counter, one perfectly folded towel at a time.
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When I'm folding, I don't have to think. I don't have to fix anyone else's mess, feelings, or mood. I fold.
And maybe that's why I do it so precisely — because for those few minutes, I actually can make something right.
I can't control how the day goes, or how I feel, or what chaos hits next — but I can control that one thing.
Every towel, every shirt, every tiny, perfect square of order in a world that constantly feels like it's slipping.
It's not really about perfection—it's about building peace and calling it control.
The brutally honest truth though?
I still hate cleaning. That probably won’t ever change.
But I have to clean—because when the house is a wreck, so am I.
And while most of it feels like a battle I never quite win, the laundry reminds me that some things can still be done right.
That I can still create calm, even if it's just in the folds of a towel.
So no, I don't clean because it's fun. I clean because it's how I stay afloat.
And when I need to remind myself that I'm capable of putting order back into the world, I start with the laundry.
IMBHO? Peace looks different for everyone. Mine just happens to smell like fresh laundry.
