Not much of a housekeeper

 My ambition is to publish a memoir on my experience with manic depression (a.k.a. bipolar disorder). I’ve read over a dozen mental illness memoirs. I’ve realized that each memoir is written exclusively in the first person. While that is an important part of the narrative, for me it is imperative to hear from other voices, loved ones who watched from a vantage of sanity. When I’m manic and psychotic I am convinced that I am thinking clearly, more clearly than ever in my life. More clearly than anyone in the world. Only when I recover do I realize how distorted my thinking was, to put it mildly.

So, I have hired a skilled interviewer to talk to those close to me, they who have seen me in my mood swings. I’m in the process of watching these recordings and transcribing them. I will incorporate their insights into my memoir.

One of my brothers said, “She’s not much of a housekeeper.” This took me aback (be careful what you ask for). I’ve pondered his statement many times. It stings, but he’s absolutely right.

Of course, “not much of” is a pretty loose term. I’ve been in houses with more clutter than I can imagine accumulating. But the comment is a fair assessment.

It reminds me of a slumber party my mom threw for me when I was in fifth grade. I bought fancy pajamas with a matching sleeping cap and cloth boots from the Sears catalog and invited a few girlfriends to sleep in our living room. Dark-haired Rosemary, who was very proud of her Italian heritage, complained that her mother scrubbed the kitchen floor every week on her hands and knees. I laughed and said my mom hardly ever mopped the floor and never got down on her hands and knees.

After the party I told my mom about our conversation. She was mortified that I would admit such a thing to anyone, but especially to a girl with a mother of such habits. At the time, I wondered what the fuss was about. It never occurred to me that the floor was excessively dirty. Now I sympathize with my mom.

As may be typical of manic depression, my housekeeping reflects my moods. When I’m in an elevated mood, the house nearly vibrates with clean. Jim can sense it as he enters the house. Other times it’s much too much effort to keep up. Dishes pile up; the floor doesn't get swept much less mopped or scrubbed.

I’m grateful for my brother’s honest comment. It’s so easy to maintain a fantasy self-image. It’s good to look in the mirror and really see what's there. What everybody else sees in an instant.