I get really depressed, angry, and demotivated when I do housework. The more I do, the more it seems there is left to do still … the farther I feel from any sort of (totally unattainable) finish line.
I hate that it requires so much near-daily maintenance. A total lifestyle of vigilance against built-up mess and clutter and dust. I don’t feel like I’ll ever get there. I don’t know if I ever *want* to be that on-top-of-it. I *do* know there is a limit — a very LOW limit — to the amount of uncompensated effort and frequency of housework I’m willing to do. I also know that in order to live in some reasonable state of order and cleanliness, that will require either a) being able to pay for help with housekeeping along with a larger home with more and better STORAGE, or b) letting go of a lot a lot a lot of things, and continuing to get rid of stuff constantly and stick within well-organized limits. Really, both.
I often set unrealistic goals / have unrealistic visions of how much I can accomplish within a certain number of hours / in a day. So even if I do a “good” job and make a tangible dent in what “needs” to be done, I still feel disappointed and like a failure. Additionally, I often realize that whatever I put on my to-do list is actually NOT the thing I should start with, and have to prioritize whatever-the-thing-is / things-are that need doing BEFORE the stuff on my to-do list. So at the end of the day it looks like … I didn’t do what I set out to do. Of course this is where it comes in handy to commit to a certain number of hours / amount of time rather than a specific task or outcome: to do the work, and leave the results to “God”. And/or being able to let go of whatever attachment I have to a perfect-looking bullet-journal/efficiency-sheet/to-do list and embrace where it got me BUT OH GOD IT STILL FEELS LIKE *NOWHERE*.
I struggle to listen to my mom and my sister with any empathy or patience or tolerance when they detail their own housework challenges and accomplishments and clutter-reduction desires and plans – their worries aren’t like mine in those regards, and it makes me feel really resentful, like they want me to help when I am drowning in way bigger and messier problems. And then they talk about getting rid of things I *want* and can’t believe they are ready to trash or give away without any consideration for their value or the memories associated with them. Today it was the round black oriental table of my grandparents’ with the mother-of-pearl inlays. I want to be supportive, but I take it a lot of it really personally.
I HAVE A LONG WAY TO GO. And I am feeling really old and like it’s probably too late and unrealistic at fifty-two to imagine it ever getting markedly, meaningfully better.
I do feel a little hopeful, though, as I write this before bed, that I will wake up tomorrow and see my tidied and dusted desk / writing area in the cabin, and feel HAPPY and energized by the clean space I made today. Even if it is temporary. Even if it is not completely “done”. Maybe it is like Hemingway, always leaving an unfinished sentence to more easily pick up the next day where he left off … like kind of leaving an engine running so you don’t have to slog through getting warmed up or trying to figure out where to start. Maybe when you leave a little undone, you can immediately begin and accomplish something without a huge daunting expanse of options and uncertainty in the morning.