One of the problems that comes with my PTSD is the need to control my environment. Most of the time, I'm happy picking up as I go, washing the dishes, dusting and vacuuming the RV when my partner heads off to work. But there's days where my cleaning is a sign that I'm not doing well, emotionally. Other times, I NEED to clean in order to keep the feeling of the walls of our home closing in on me from swallowing the sane bits of my mind.
When I ran across the title of Helen Ellis' piece, I was hoping it was going to be something that might help me keep from driving my partner insane with my cleaning-Nazi tendencies. Ellis' column isn't that. It is, however, a funny, intimate and brutally honest look into the life of a couple struggling with the notion of co-habitation.
I chuckled a few times as I read the piece, but this had me laughing out loud:
The man I married walked into my apartment and found Pop-Tart crusts on my couch. I can still see his face, bewildered and big-eyed, pointing at the crusts as if to ask, “Do you see them, too?”
If you've got five empty minutes, you should fill them up with the reading of it.