Clutter makes me angry. When I open a cupboard and things fall out I feel emotionally precarious. I am in a constant battle with stuff. In fact, I feel like the older I get, the more stuff I have. The more stuff I have, the more time I have to spend cleaning, arranging and sorting stuff. Most of the stuff I don’t use, but it’s nice stuff. Or it’s stuff I’m emotionally attached to. Or it’s stuff my kids have left at my house because they don’t feel like sorting through it. I work so hard that by the end of the week I’m literally stuffed. Which is ironic because tidying my stuff when I’m stuffed is crucial to maintaining my mental health.
Sunday was my first day off in weeks. I could have got a massage. I could have had lunch with a friend. I could have gone to the beach. But the rain was torrential so I was under house arrest. Me and the mess. I knew it had to be done. But where to start?
I looked at the clothes bulging from my wardrobe. I have clothes in suitcases, under beds, and in three other wardrobes. They have to go. I faced the music and took clothes I used to fit into, that I’d kept in hope that I’d ever be a size 10 again, and passed them on to my daughter. Those clothes are vintage now so she thinks I’m a cool mum. If not also a little fat.
And if I’m suddenly a size 10, I’ll just wear her clothes.
Once complete I moved onto the fridge. Or bacteria exhibit. I found medication for my dog who died three years ago. Pickles that had become hallucinogenic. And every type of milk opened and unused hiding on the top shelf. It was a strangely soothing activity. As I removed the shelves, stained with rogue soy sauce and honey and washed them in the sink, I felt a strange calm. Like my wellbeing was being restored. As I cleaned, I enjoyed that smug resentment you feel when you know you’re the only person in the house who does this properly. They better bloody notice.
I’ve always been like this. I need order to feel calm and happy, I need my surroundings to be clean. My kids think I’m crazy. My husband thinks I’m controlling. They’re both right.
But yesterday I read in an article that living in a cluttered space can induce feelings of overwhelm and anxiety. In fact ‘the constant visual stimuli from a chaotic environment can contribute to a sense of being mentally burdened, making it challenging to focus and concentrate.’ Oh! I am hearing you Dr Grace Hula! I feel so seen!
Studies show there is a correlation between a cluttered environment and increased levels of the stress hormone cortisol. Chronic exposure to mess can lead to anxiety and depression! All this time it wasn’t my fault! I wasn’t a grumpy pain in the arse picking towels off the floor – I was a woman fighting for her mental health. It seems at times my family were conspiring to bring me undone. But I kept vigil. And I sent them the article.
It seems weird to think that cleaning a bin can be self care. It’s not as sexy as going to a day spa, or having your toenails painted. But in the long run, if you fold my washing, if you iron my shirts (yes, I do iron), and if you replace the toilet roll once it’s used, you will have contributed to my mental wellbeing. And if I’m happy then so, generally, is everyone else.
So if you’re wondering what to get your mother this Christmas, clean her windows. Dust her photographs. And when you stay there – pick up your shit! It’s not just good manners. It’s science.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
