I’ve always been organized. I’ve always been a planner. I’ve always made to-do lists and I think I’ve always kept my room clean. (Mom, please confirm.) In the last period of the school day, I would use my student planner to outline my afternoon to the minute - scheduling which subject’s homework I’d tackle first, the ideal time for a shower, and my designated “free” time.
My childhood bedroom had shelving units and closet systems that supported easy organization. Everything had a place. I have distinct memories from first or second grade, planning and laying out the next day’s outfit, before I started my bedtime routine.
Even though we had a housekeeper, my dad and I did our own laundry and I took joy in reorganizing my drawers every few months. I often thought I inherited my obsessive organization from him - he’d immediately throw out anything that cluttered our kitchen or shared computer station. He may have thrown out my completed-but-not-yet-turned-in homework a few times. We would often run to our flights panting, because he simply could not leave for the airport before every trash bin was emptied and every room in the house was in order. And on the topic of travel, he felt strongly that there was a right way to pack, and I can proclaim with confidence that he’d be very proud of the way I’ve mastered packing the perfect carry-on.
In my college dorm room, I used every hack Bed Bath and Beyond offered to maximize my half of a room smaller than my childhood bedroom. Risers, under the bed storage and hanging shoe shelves, boom.
With each new apartment and set of roommates, I meticulously set up my new home, with the utmost respect for our shared spaces. I then relished in the autonomy of living alone for four glorious years and maintained my obsession with organization.
Marriage is an insane experiment in so many ways, but agreeing to live with someone for the rest of your life feels like a much tougher commitment than staying faithful. I never had the same roommate more than two years. Forever is a long time to share a living space.
The first two years of our marriage, we figured out how to share a space we had each individually enjoyed to ourselves before. We installed a massive Ikea closet in a space that was already cozy and negotiated how to merge and consolidate our belongings. In an effort to get rid of duplicates, we somehow both threw out our DVD players, leaving us with zero.
He learned just how organized I was, as we started playing house. I learned that he thinks cabinet doors close themselves.
When we moved to our second place, we shared a closet and oh my god did that test my patience. I learned to embrace the term “OCD” and acknowledged that seeing shoes in the middle of the hall, or a pile of sweaters accumulating on the closet floor, made me want to stuff my face in a pillow and scream at the top of my lungs.
I’m sure I complained about the disarray, but I generally tried to keep my rage to myself. (Babe, please confirm.) I internalized the idea that I have a problem. My desire to be organized was obsessive. My need to have everything in the right place all the time was compulsive. Using my night off to organize an ever-growing list of Evernotes was weird.
Around that time, shows like Tidying Up with Marie Kondo and Get Organized with the Home Edit became popular. I started to realize that I wasn’t alone in my “obsession.” Turns out a lot of people like to live in homes that feel clean and orderly. I felt slightly validated and started to resent any judgment of my supposed OCD.
I was nine months pregnant with our second kid, when we moved into our next home (and our first house) and few things have brought me more joy than spending a good chunk of my savings to hire Life in Jeneral, after stalking their Instagram for years. They organized every inch of my new dwellings with systems that I was hopeful would preserve my sanity in a home with two growing boys. And a dog. And a husband who continued to poke fun at my need to contain and label things.
Nearly 10 years into marriage and over four years in our first house, I recognize that overall, my husband is a wonderful partner and my children are decent roommates. I am amused and delighted that he has allowance for the majority of my quirks and in some cases, has adopted my obsessively detail-oriented processes. Google doc travel itineraries are high among my top love languages, and we are at the point that he now creates one even for a 48-hour staycation.
Nearly 10 years into marriage and over four years in our first house, I have organized and reorganized our space many times. It feels like I’m purging weekly, as my kids outgrow shoes, clothing and toys at a speed that leaves me feeling whiplash. At any given time, there are half full bags in my office, destined for friends with younger boys or The Council Thrift Store down the street. Weather tight bins continue to be lugged out of the garage, unpacked with ready-to-wear hand me down items, just to be repacked with newest set of hand-me-downs destined to be used in 2-3 years time.
Mind you, there was no discussion of delegating this responsibility to me. Clearly, I am the COO (Chief Organization Officer) of this household, and if anyone dared volunteer for the position, I’d probably tear them a new one with a mountain of critiques.
And yet, it feels like a massively under appreciated role. The organizer of our collective lives. The guardian of our things. The nagging voice to put your shoes on the shoe rack (instead of next to the shoe rack, right where I need to walk through, for fuck’s sake) and your socks in the hamper (instead of every single other surface in our home, for the love of god.)
Whether it has been my recent flare in allergies, adult onset asthma, or just general pent up resentment, something snapped in me a couple weeks ago. I started to feel a deep-seated rage while my eyes narrowed in on every single thing that was out of place in our home, and would just sit there - for days maybe - because no one else seemed particularly bothered by it. No one thought that they should unpack the backpack after soccer - that perhaps there might be rotting fruit in the pocket. No one thought they should unpack the goody bag after the birthday. It seems normal to keep a half empty goodie bag on the kitchen counter for two weeks. It’s not like we need that space for anything else - like preparing your lunch.
Up until this point, whether I clean these things up myself, politely and patiently engage my family members in doing their part, or unleash a few choice words in anger, I generally assume that I am the one with the problem. I am too organized. I am too anal. I expect too much of them. Who’s to say that my way is the right way? I’m the neurotic one.
But at some point two weeks ago, I interrupted my self-blaming internal monologue to inquire: Is it really OCD or just common fucking decency to expect other people to clean up after themselves?
Do I have a problem or is it normal to desire your roommates to put things away in their designated spots and recognize that they are living with three other human beings, who don’t want to find socks on every fucking seat in the house?
Do I have OCD? Does it matter? Whether my need for organization is more intense than the average person, whether it’s quirky or obsessive or compulsive, it does serve a purpose that all of my roommates benefit from, do they not? They can find their cleats before soccer practice. Their car key when leaving in the morning. Their wallet, so that I don’t have to hear “I can’t find my wallet!” for the 14th time this week. It feels like everyone wins when we put our shit away in the moment, instead of waiting for me to trip over someone’s Nikes and scream “fuuuuuuuuck” internally while I imagine punching the offender in the face. Yes, perhaps I have issues. Yes, it is very likely that this is a trauma response, and just one more way that my need for control is showing up, but for the love of god, can we all just hang our towels after we shower?
It points to a bigger discussion for another post: for those of us “doing the work” and able to identify our issues, and where our shit comes from - do we bear an unfair burden of taking accountability, always assuming that we can and should do better, be better?
Rant over. Which brings us to…
This Week’s Haiku
There are a lot of Things wrong with me, I admit But pick up your shit
Until next time, be a good roommate. Whether you’re sharing a room, a house, or the world.
Love,
Jess
As someone who has always been somewhat tidy and organised, I love this!... although I do find it weird that you refer to your family as 'roommates'! Personally I have been assessed for OCD and I didn't meet enough of the criteria for diagnosis. I talk about that here: https://neurodivergentnotes.substack.com/p/on-being-inflexible. In general I agree that most other people are just messy, and my personal view is that they weren't taught as children to clean up after themselves.