Can a Slob Change? Pt. 1: Slob at Heart

 

   As a child, I was always messy. My mom would tell me, “You’re just a pack rat, like your dad.” I never wanted to throw anything away, or put it where it “belonged”. In fact, none of my possessions had a place where they belonged—at least, not in an organizational sense. No, actually I used my mess as a means of navigating my room. Instead of the book I loved belonging in a certain place on the shelf, it belonged on the floor over to that side.

Messy Beginnings

  I remember many nights spent with my parents in tears over them making me pick up my room. My mother would always tell me that it would be better this way, that I would be able to find my things better and I would feel better if my room was in order. It certainly had been that way for her. She had learned that whenever she was feeling stressed, she would feel better if she just started throwing things away and putting them in order.   

 For me, that wasn’t true. I never felt better when my room was clean and I had a hard time finding everything once it was “put away”. It wasn’t often that my room was fully clean. Usually after a while, my parents gave up because I was in tears and not making any progress.

Safety in Squalor

  I don’t think, as a child, I understood what I was doing or even why cleaning up made me so upset. It was hard, it took effort, but after a point it was about more than that. Why did I want my room to be a mess?

  In my room, I felt safer. All I had ever been given in my life was in there, all crammed on top of each other. Only I knew where anything was, so I could hide the money I had saved up from years of birthdays and Christmases—I never spent a single cent. I saved and hid candy too, so that I could be sure if I wanted it, if I needed it, I could have it and nobody else could take it from me, since I was the only one who knew where anything was.

 

 My room was a safe place for me because I would never forget in that room, and I would never be forgotten. As a child I had this intense fear of being forgotten, and this room proved that I existed. I wouldn’t forget anyone either, it seemed like the worst thing I could do to someone. I had a reminder of every memory, and every word I had learned. I kept every letter that had ever been written to me— good or bad. I had a momento from every friend who had left, moved, died or even was still with me.

  I was safe there because I could be prepared. I kept every scrap of clothing I could because “you never know when your style or weight might change”. I kept extra school supplies, and craft materials, and diaries that I hadn’t used. In my room, if I had it at any point, it was there. I didn’t have to worry about not being allowed to get something I felt I needed, or even risking it by having to ask.

  My room was safe because it allowed me to be my introvert self. I could be left alone there because nobody wanted to come in. I could blend in with all my possessions and people wouldn’t look at me, they would only see the mess. I didn’t want to be seen.

  As time went on, I became more unhappy and my room became more cluttered. The more unhappy I felt, the more stuff piled up. I woke up as late as I could to get out of bed for school, and at night, I laid awake crying, writing, hurting, and listening to music I wasn’t supposed to as quietly as I could to still hear it.

Packing Up the Mess

  My parents’ resignation turned to rage as we were going to be moving. Somehow I had to get everything packed up to transport to this new city, this new life that I would be participating in. My sisters had easier times packing, as they were much neater than I, and my parents simply couldn’t understand how I had let my room get so filled with junk.

   I remember my grandmother even came over to try to help me with my room, and she was taken aback by the amount of clutter and disorganization. She said she had never seen a room so messy, and that she didn’t know if she could really help. I was so ashamed. We didn’t get very far that day.

  I didn’t know it at the time, but it left a mark on me. I always wanted to be favorable in my grandma’s eyes, and for her to say something like that hurt. A little part of me realized that maybe instead of hiding in my mess, I was starting to be seen as my mess, and that thought frightened me to my core.

New Environment, New Mess?

   After we moved, I settled into my new, bigger room. It was further away from the common area, a floor underneath, and I was allowed to fall into myself further. I had all sorts of plans for this room. I would write poetry in the windowsill when it rained, and give myself pedicures in that corner there. All of my comic books would go on that shelf in the corner, with a beanbag chair to lounge comfortably.

  With all of these plans, I never asked the scary question that was lingering in the back of my mind. Would I be able to use this room for all of my dreams and plans, or would it become too messy to have a half dozen girls sleep over? I never asked, because in fact, I think I feared the answer more than the question. If it meant that all my dreams were pointless to entertain, I would rather be happy for the moment burying my head in the sand and dreaming up new fantasies.

 

  Are you a pack rat or a clutterbug? Do you know why you resist a clean home base, or are you in denial that one day, everything will just be neat and tidy like I was? Leave a comment for others (and myself) to relate to, and please share on social media so that others may know they are not alone. If you’re interested in finding out how I overcame my tendency to sabotage the aesthetic of my home base, click here for the next edition of “Can a Slob Change?”