Laundry and Mental Health

I've done 8 loads of laundry so far today.

I'm not proud of that.

When things aren't going well mentally, the laundry is the first chore to get backed up, followed by sweeping, grocery shopping (we don't starve- I do have a spouse), and finally dishes.

The bathrooms are somehow immune to this progression. Even in a funk I have standards I guess.

By the time there's a stack of dishes next to the sink, there's no food left in the pantry and there's no clean clothes to wear, I've usually realized something's not quite right. This might take a week or two.

Coming out of it, the reverse applies: the dishes get done, usually in a mad frenzy, mega-shopping commences, dust and cheddar bunny crumbs (courtesy of messy, messy Mr. Autism) are attacked with a vengeance, and then finally, there's the final mental health test: the laundry pile.

I have a natural aversion to doing laundry. I have no idea why. I have always been this way. I like clean clothes. I just loathe the process of getting there.

Attacking the laundry mountain takes strength of will and determination, a willingness to accept responsibility for one's mistakes (since it's never that bad if I do at least one load a day), and a certain amount of soul-seeking (namely, what can I do to make sure I never have to go through this again?).

Empty laundry baskets waiting for new dirty clothes to fill it announces, "Bring it on, world: I can cope".

I am coping. I am getting there.

In between loads, I wrote 765 words, watered the lettuce, peppers and baby seeds, stirred the compost again, scrubbed Mr. Autism's walls for the 30th time this year and refilled the bird feeders by the front window so my younger son and I can watch cardinals over breakfast. Chapter by chapter, load by load, step by step, my life is moving forward, slow and steady progress. I am still content today.