“My room is a mess. A complete and utter mess.”
I mumbled this to myself as the early morning light began drifting over my room spotlighting every thread of clothing scattered about. Blue jeans poised over boxes in anticipation of a new adventure with belt dangling as if in a dare. Running shorts balled and tossed as if suffering from its own runner’s cramp. Hoodies hanging from the bed post in hopes that this hanging action demagnetizes its dog hair attraction qualities. Work clothes forgotten immediately once off. A box of “treasures” packed meticulously in a corner, left from a previous purging spree. Not to mention, the dust hanging in an apparent suicide from the ceiling.
A mess. My 13 year old self knows that I would be grounded until I got “this room straightened out! And, straightened out good!” envisioning my mother with her hands on her hips and eyes glaring.
I struggle daily to keep the house in order. By no means am I white-gloved house keeper, however, I do try to keep things tidy. There is no mistake, though; our house is lived-in.
But, why do I struggle with “my side” of the room?
This question consumed me. Every dish I loaded into the dishwasher, every load of clothes folded from the dryer, I wondered why I couldn’t keep my room clean. What was so hard about putting my socks into the dirty clothes pile? I expected nothing less from everyone else.
Then, the epiphany sang loud in my head.
I knew the answer.
I fight to stay in control of so many aspects of my life, that I have subconsciously said, “that’s ok,” to my personal space. I don’t see it as saying that I’m secretly not in control, but, instead, as a way to keep my psyche happy. I think of the things that are in my control. They range from supper to clean bathrooms to sweeping floors. Whether I am doing the tasks or delegating another, I am still in control. I am in control of the food in the fridge and the money in school lunch accounts. I am in control of the yard being neatly landscaped and the nifty Roomba staying charged. I’m even the one that controls whether or not we use smelly bleach tablets in the tanks of our toilets. I even controlled the first foods my children identified as breakfast foods and the music they listened to as they ate.
That’s a lot of controlling.
So, in my mental conclusion, I’ve decided not to stress over that pile of clothes lingering in the corner waiting to be stuffed into the crowded armoire. I’m embracing that I can’t control everything. I’m embracing that it is healthy not to control everything. Some things really do need to be left up to chance, even karma. I have to accept that I can’t control everything, no matter how stressing that is to me.
I have to accept that my room is a mess. If I really think about it, my mind is a mess, too.