Well, this is sure to be a downer. But I’ve got to vent a bit….
I realised that my Grandma June was a little crazy the day I heard that she had a stroke. The stroke wasn’t the thing that gave it away- the tell-all was the fact that I’m pretty sure someone said that when she had the stroke she fell off the top of the fridge…where she had been cleaning. She had the cleanest home in the world. Whenever I was around her she was cleaning- cooking- cleaning again. But she didn’t SEEM crazy because that’s just how it was. She had time to take care of her home the way she felt she needed to, especially since I don’t think she slept over 2 or 3 hours a night since she was in her 60′s. I often come back to these pictures in my head. Grandma June wiping something up, cleaning dishes, vaccuming, sweeping the patio, mowing her own lawn. She was a fanatic. I can see this fanaticism for cleanliness and routines extending from her through some of my nearest and dearest and landing …on…me.
I’ve always been a cleaner- and I’ve always had my little “habits” that make a day a success. There have been times in my life where my inability to attain perfection in my routines has caused me downright fear, absolute anxiety that somehow my lack of attention to prescribes details would end in some catastrophe for my parents. I spent fourth grade in the bathroom in the nurse’s office because things weren’t the way they were meant to be….I spent the summer before my Junior year in Scranton in my house in Massachusetts just knowing that if I left nothing would ever be the same. It was an awful, awful fear. But I always got over it- even though my routines were my sanity, and breaking expectations meant anger and fear and anxiety- I broke them anyway. It was my way of coping. I went to Scranton. I went to England. I came to Utah. And aside from being known as a “neat freak” and having “high expectations” when it comes to cleanliness, I think my symptoms have abated some and I’ve been able to just go with the flow. I left my safe places and suffered through the anxiety until it just went away.
Until now. I am absolutely consumed with the need for things to be better, cleaner, more perfect. And, being pregnant, I’ve got less ability to force them to be so. For about a week now I’ve had this really strange anxiety around my heart. It makes me close my eyes and try to breath, and the only way I can make it go away is by straightening up my house and making sure the dishes are done and cleaning the bathroom. I plan things, and if they go well..well…things are great. But if they don’t it’s like my whole world is falling apart. I keep reading things on the internet trying to figure out how to cope with my feelings, but I can’t find anything except “OCD symptoms can worsen during pregnancy.” Well….thanks. That’s helpful. And I cry and cry and try to explain to John why I’m so crazy- and he just holds me and lets me get it all out…but then it just builds again.
Am I going to be crazy forever? Cause here’s the thing- while this disease might have been acceptable or even HANDY during a time when all I’m expected to do is to keep a clean house and wipe my children’s noses raw….I don’t live during that time. And I want more for myself. And while I’ll always, probably, be that “neat freak”….I need to be able to go with the flow and be a little more flexible without breaking down. I wish I could explain how it feels- I really do.
Even as I’m writing this I’m thinking that I probably shouldn’t put this out there for everyone to see- more than anything I want to be pleasant and easy and delightful to be around and think about. I want to be a strength to my family and not someone to worry about (so don’t worry Mom, ok?) but I think that perhaps the only thing that will make me feel better…even a little…is to know that everything’s going to be ok. This isn’t just “nesting” and it’s not just “pregnancy stress,” I know it’s more than that. Most likely, the pregnancy hormones that makes some women cry at sappy commercials are taking those parts of me that make me crazy and shooting them around my body like ping pong balls. But just getting it out there just maybe, might, MAYBE help me reconnect to the world instead of pulling inside of myself and attempting to achieve perfection all alone and failing. Because who can be perfect?
I’m not perfect. My home is not perfect. And I can’t do everything.
So there ya go.
