I wonder what my husband thinks when he turns a corner in our house and finds my head buried in a cabinet or drawer.

Scratch that.

After sharing six homes over the course of seven years, my husband knows that when he turns a corner in our house and finds my head buried in a cabinet or drawer, he’s lost me. Sometimes for just an afternoon, other times for a few days. I’m not sure if he has come to appreciate this or see it as a sign that I’m up for OCD candidate of the year, but he accepts it nonetheless, and I appreciate that he never tries to talk me out of my not-terribly-infrequent habit of household purging. On a mild day, I’ll stick to one room; when I’m on a rampage, the entire house is up for grabs. On my last binge I spent an entire weekend culling, tossing and packing boxes bound for Goodwill, all of which amounted to two carloads of donations and four bags of trash.

That was almost two months ago, and this past weekend I was at it again in my studio. The results: one bag of trash, one bag to Goodwill, all shelves emptied, re-arranged and re-organized, and no more stray art supplies in the bathtub. It might not look remarkably different at first glance, but I see how every nook and cranny has been altered. I savor the new pockets of open space and feel less encumbered by bits and baubles I’ve hung to for years, waiting for the day that perfect project would make them indispensible.

My obsession is not difficult to understand. A close family member has a fixation at the opposite end of the spectrum, which has resulted in a house filled with so many material objects that there is literally no room to sit down. Pathways through the house are created with boxes and the few small spaces throughout the house that exist have room for only one person. I haven’t been in that house for a long time, but the memory of standing in it and feeling the weight of the loneliness that must be felt by anyone who would live in such an environment is still palpable. That house felt heavy – literally and emotionally, as if the amassing of so much stuff was the only way this person could feel a connection to the world.

It could certainly be said that I have gone too far to the other extreme; it isn’t hard to recognize those moments when this little “quirk” turns into a full-blown compulsion. I became so transfixed by the idea of emptying out at least one shelf in my studio this weekend that I could hardly think of anything else, and I knew all along that if anyone could read my thoughts they would think I had gone off the deep end. I simply had to get rid of more; it wasn’t a choice. My studio began to feel heavy, and heavy is not what I want expressed in any area of my life.

Stories of human obsessions, fixations, inclinations and addictions are a dime a dozen, and they are usually focused on attempts to overcome and release them. Rehabilitation is the goal, and anything less is failure. I’m OK with my neurosis. It doesn’t involve abusing my body, hurting those around me, or sending me into a tailspin of debt, pain and sorrow. It is what I need to do to keep myself in a space that feels light – in my home as well as my heart and mind. And pursuing what feels light and airy can’t be a bad thing, even if it makes my husband shake his head in bewilderment every once in a while.

2 Responses to “Neurosis”

1. Marianne Says:
   November 3rd, 2009 at 3:23 am

   What a fantastic essay, Swirly! I love how self-aware you are and seriously - if your ‘obsession’ results in less stuff in your life and meeting the needs of others then it can hardly be considered harmful! You rock that neurosis.

2. jenica Says:
   November 3rd, 2009 at 2:05 pm

   come on over and work out your obsession on my house any time. ;-D

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