I’m totally procrastinating right now. I got up this morning with the intention of doing household chores and… well… I managed to pick up my laundry from the laundromat today and I washed the dishes, but I haven’t done anything else.
I just sit here, looking out from my chair feeling utterly overwhelmed with the idea of getting up and actually DOING something… and then I start to stumble down the path of analysis paralysis. Why do I feel this way? What’s wrong with me that I can’t pick up my own house? Why can’t I keep anything straightened up? Why do I just randomly throw things on the floor? Why why why why why?!
Breathe, Nikkiana. Breathe.
I set my timer, and do 15 minutes.
A few things get moved to the rooms that they’re supposed to be in. I get distracted by preparing myself cheese and salami. I get distracted by the music and shake my ass. But I did something, even if only a little bit of something.
If I keep doing little bits of something, eventually it’ll get done.
I really don’t know what it is that makes me struggle so much with the cleaning and the organizing. It’s always been a problem. As a child, my room always looked like a toybox exploded in it. I’m not entirely sure why, but my parents rarely pushed the issue of cleaning my room with me. I’m guessing it probably had something to do with the fact that they weren’t the most particularly organized people themselves and I suspect that I probably pitched an explosive fit or two, got banished to my room and just sat there and cried for hours and hours on end rather than using the time to you know… clean my room. If the kid’s that inconsolable about the idea of cleaning her room, I mean… I guess I can see why a parent might give up the fight after awhile, just to keep the peace.
The only times that I can remember when my parents pushed the cleaning my room issue were the fewer than half a dozen visits from my grandparents, my mother’s parents, who lived in Arizona. The house had to be cleaned and organized to avoid the shaming that would inevitably come from my grandmother. Even I knew better than to fight the “houseclean for Grandma” because those shaming blue eyes would be staring straight at me. The room would stay clean just long enough for my grandmother to believe that it was always that way, and when she had gone I’d dump all my toys back onto the floor again.
As I got older, it was less toys and more clothes.
I’ve always had a habit of just dropping things on the floor next to me when I’m done with them, instead of getting up and putting them away.
These days, I try and just go around and pick stuff up before I go to bed, though it doesn’t always work. The more anxious I seem to be erring, the harder it becomes to keep up with. But at least I’m trying.