Over the past few weeks, I have been on this crazy mission to clean and organize everything in my apartment. My roommate, God bless her, has tolerated my mania and even joined in to take care of her areas. I love me roommate. Well last night I finished . . . okay 95% is done. There are still a couple of little projects but those involve reorganizing something that is already in its proper place. Therefore, for all intents and purposes, I finished last night.

As I looked around my dusted, vacuumed, organized, color-coordinated, alphabetized – just kidding, I didn’t alphabetize anything . . . yet – this profound sense of peace settled over me. I even folded a fitted sheet neatly, that is how Zen I was.

I LOVE being in a neat and tidy space. It makes my heart happy. My grandmother would be so proud, I definitely get this from her. It’s not that it has to be sparse, it just has to be neat. A place for everything and everything in its place. I feel like I should cross-stitch that on a pillow or something.

My living space hasn’t looked this good since I was a kid. It’s always close, but there’s always something amuck. Some area that is a disaster area, and I have done this on purpose for years. Growing up I felt as if I had no control over my life. My mother was sick and our lives were ruled by her sickness. Therefore, I found myself something that I could control. Namely, my bedroom. It was pristine, at all times. Everything had a place, and I knew if someone had moved a tchotchke even half an inch. How did I know this? Because I kept such a tight rein on all of my belongings that I would be driven to distraction until it was returned to its correct place. It was the only thing I could control, so half an inch was that important. I can only assume that my friends picked up on this, because when they came over they either put things back exactly where they got it, or gave it to me to put away.

Sounds pretty OCD, right? That is because I had OCD, a mild case thankfully, but OCD nevertheless. I had to cope with mess and disorder everywhere else, but in my room, everything could be perfect. And there is the reason that I’ve always left something messy as an adult. After leaving college and getting my first place on my own, I discovered the downside in needing things to be perfect. Perfect is a dangerous word, because it is un-achievable and will only make you crazy. Over time, I broke the OCD cycle and have never let myself be completely organized since.

It was earlier this year that it occurred to me, that I’ve come a LONG way since I was that depressed, OCD kid looking for an outlet. A LONG WAY. I no longer need things to be organized, I like them to be organized. Therefore, I decided that it was high time that I love the space I live in. It was high time, for everything to have a place, and for everything to be in its place. A milestone had been reached. To celebrate, I cleaned and organized my entire apartment. I know how to party.