The townhome I live in is twenty years old. Part of the “fun” of being a homeowner is that there is always something that needs work. Two months or so I undertook a bathroom renovation… and lived to tell. It was pretty awful, honestly, but I am glad for the upgrades and for the things I learned going through the process.
I noticed, recently, that I have really backslid on my previously anal-retentive tendencies in housekeeping. Surveying the roughly 1000 square feet that I can call “mine,” I saw two oversized sofas covered in (clean) laundry, two sinks full of dishes, piles of books and photos everywhere, and enough messiness that it made me feel tired every time I came home. I wondered when this malaise set in, and why this was so. I realized this had begun to take (mis)shape when I began to spend the majority of my time at my present workplace, where I am housed but most of my friends currently experience homelessness.
It makes sense, then, that I would internalize guilt, helplessness, lethargy, and even some shame. What doesn’t make sense, and what is ultimately unhelpful is what I unknowingly did with those feelings. I let my home backslide from a place of sanctuary into a place I currently feel anxious in.
When I leave I need peace, quiet, and beauty. Everyone deserves a place where they find these things. I come here because I want these things for my friends. I recognize now that I should fight as hard for these things for myself. When I leave here I’ll be spending a few hours tonight and every night this week getting the house back in order; getting my house back in order.