Our kitchen floor is a maze of scattered markers. Crumbs have formed a small army on the couches and rugs. The dishes are embarking on an ever-growing journey, and my children are on a mission to turn everything upside down. My anxiety is rising.
In these moments, I become the queen of cleaning, tackling every corner of our home with the fervor of a neat-freak warrior. I wipe surfaces, vacuum like a tornado, and restore everything to its rightful place. I inhale deeply, appreciating the brief tranquility that surrounds me. For a fleeting moment, my worries seem to take a break.
I’m Jamie Carter, and hyper-cleaning has become my reliable coping strategy for managing my mental health challenges. I’m the mom who meticulously oversees every item in our house. I’m the partner who nudges my spouse to help out with chores. And I’m a woman shaped by a tumultuous upbringing that has led me here.
As someone who thrives on cleanliness, the stress of our family’s coronavirus lockdown has been overwhelming. I’ve learned to embrace the chaos of having two young kids and the messes they make. Occasionally, I let things slide and focus on being present with my children or tackling remote work. Still, there’s an incessant urge to find something, anything, to clean.
My anxiety roots back to a childhood filled with turmoil. I’ve spent countless hours unraveling these experiences with therapists and rely on effective antidepressants to help manage my symptoms. Diagnosed with complex PTSD a year and a half ago, my journey since has been one of bittersweet acceptance.
Growing up, clutter was my constant companion. Our home was forever under renovation, filled with more pets than we could handle. The laundry room often resembled a mountain of dirty clothes, and spending a day indoors could leave my feet stained with dirt.
Holidays were the only time we’d clean, and those tasks fell squarely on my mother’s shoulders since my dad, though caring, often distanced himself emotionally. Now, as a mother of young kids, I often wonder how my mom maintained her sanity in a house that was too big for her alone. The harsh truth is that she didn’t. Along with the physical mess, I felt waves of anxiety and shame, experiencing abuse that left me terrified to make mistakes.
In my quest to cope with these painful feelings, I chased perfection at all costs. I kept my body unnaturally thin through harmful methods, excelled in every aspect of life, and obsessed over every detail in my home. I carefully crafted my speech to please others while hiding my messy emotions and pursuing a career path focused on popularity and success.
Then I had kids, and everything unraveled. I gained weight, my to-do list shrank, and my home spiraled into chaos. I found myself self-harming, having panic attacks, and wondering why I couldn’t regain control.
Cleaning became a way to fill the void left by lost productivity. I would wipe surfaces until there was nothing left to clean, feel a moment of peace, and then watch my toddler undo all my efforts. Frustration bubbled up, and I did what I could to survive the day. I would clean at night, praying that my husband’s late-night binge-watching wouldn’t ruin my hard work, only to wake up and start the cycle anew.
Accepting my complex PTSD is still a challenge, but I understand now that my mental health was calling for attention in those early parenting days. The urge to create a tidy home was a way to avoid confronting the painful trauma of my past. It took two years for me to finally listen and seek help. I’ve made progress since then, and while I’m still a work in progress, I’m committed to healing.
These days, I still clean to manage my anxiety, often with my husband’s help. Some days he falters, and I feel overwhelmed, but he understands how vital a balanced home is for my mental well-being. Yes, I still have those whirlwind moments of tidying up, often fueled by catchy tunes from artists like Lizzo or Arcade Fire. My kids find my frantic cleaning amusing, but I’m learning to view them not as obstacles but as reminders to pause and breathe.
There are perks to being organized, even if I haven’t achieved full “Marie Kondo status.” I know where everything is, nothing gets lost, and I’ve memorized countless cleaning songs to sing with my children. They happily pitch in, learning from the example of a mom who values order while navigating her mental health journey. They get to enjoy a mother who is present and engaged, creating messy memories together.
And while their dad may be comfortable leaving clothes on the floor, he’s also learning to adapt for the sake of our home and my well-being. I’m grateful for that.
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In summary, while I navigate my anxiety through hyper-cleaning, I recognize the importance of balancing tidiness with the joy of parenting. By accepting my journey and focusing on healing, I’m creating a nurturing environment for my family.
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