Letting myself live in a pigsty
Welcome to chaos, which in this case is known as my apartment. I would love to do something about it. I would love to pick up my clothes and put away the dishes. And blare my music loudly and dance while I clean, just like I used to. But my body is too tired and I can barely peel myself off the couch or out of bed. Yes, my thyroid problem is kicking my ass.
When I first moved, my wonderful friends in Vancouver Island came over to help me build shelves and put my apartment together in some semblance of normalcy. But as we all know, life happens: we wear clothes and they get dirty, dust starts to collect and the list of chores gets longer. Without the help of the people who love me, my apartment now looks like I'm living in a pigsty and this just isn't the military way.
In military training, we learn to make our beds by measuring the sheets with rulers, seriously. Hospital corners are a fine art that I never quite mastered. We are taught to clean every possible surface and crevice that might be inspected – not even a loose thread on your clothing is a acceptable. To sum it all up, cleanliness is drilled into our heads as much as weapons drill, marching and saluting. It's all part of the military deal. That's why my current state of living is so horrifying to me. It goes against everything I've ever been taught.
Right now, I'm allowing myself to only do the necessities. When I need a glass, I pull it out of the dishwasher and once used, pile it up on to the other used glasses in the sink. I do laundry when I have to and put it away when space is running out on my dining table. I do shower daily, so at least I have that going for me, right? But for these next few weeks, until I'm feeling better, I'm letting myself be dirty, to go against the rules – and to forgive myself for it.
Sad, that it took a serious illness to finally allow myself that.
Kelly
