Simone

Sometime around the age of 10 or 11, I decided that being organized was highly important to me, and that my room was not organized. So I organized it, and entered a new phase of my being.

I dumped to the floor the contents of every drawer, container, and bookshelf. I sorted and re-shelved until everything had its own space and every space was neat. Inside me, something clicked.

My friends were always grounded for not cleaning their rooms when asked. This never happened to me because I never had to be asked.

As I got older, my passion for organization increased. It became so that every morning I made my bed. Each week, I vacuumed furiously. I couldn’t do my homework unless my room was clean. I couldn’t sleep unless my room was clean. I couldn’t do anything in my room unless it was clean. And so, my room was always clean.

Sometime last year, I stopped caring about having a clean room. The urge to tidy was still present, but I lacked the motivation and effort to execute my desires. I’d put “clean room” on to-do lists and allocate time, but it only ever happened on the rare late nights I was jolted with energy and too bored to do anything else.

This morning, I looked at the floor of my bedroom—except I couldn’t see it. It was covered in crinkled receipts and dirty clothes and old homework assignments. For the first time, I did not want to organize the chaos. It was comforting. Unlike to-do lists, and organized bins, and timed standardized tests, and due dates, and application requirements, and clocked community service hours, and bank statements, and bills, it felt real.

I have entered a new phase of my being. ♦