Cleaning

Last night before I crawled in bed, I sat in the bathroom and noticed, for the first time in many months, that the rugs needed washing and the walls could use a wiping down.

This seems simple, but it's a harbinger of a cleaning wind. The first real sign that I'm starting to recover myself. Noticing and caring that dirt has accumulated and needs a good scrub, and maybe I actually will start to struggle against the encroaching chaos. It's not that I love cleaning, so much as that I need a clean space. Generally. I don't go nuts. Until it's gotten this bad, and order must be restored. Having to move so often has probably obscured this urge.

I've known, but knowing is not the same as seeing and wanting to act. I've kept up a bare minimum, because I do know, and it does matter. Once, I would have dreamed of hiring a cleaner, but having done that once when I had my broken arm, was quite enough. That felt awful, even though the results were wonderful.

And I'm starting to think about the garden, just a little. This is another symptom of my burnout, having to try to get excited about gardening. Usually it's my dearest refuge, to plan and yearn for the mud and seeds.

Still am not wearing earrings. That's another symptom, when I don't much feel like earrings, I know I'm stressed or sick.

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And... I washed the bathroom walls, scrubbed sink and tub, and the grubby tops of nightlight and plugs, and the rust off the shower rod. Cleaned the stove, even moving it out to sweep behind, as well as fridge. This sort of cleaning is a very good sign. I'm getting through this, this griefy-burnout. The more I do, the better it feels, the more I want to do.