now i've got something to say

It's probably gonna be disjointed and make very little sense. I'm okay with that.

I read in the last couple days, in a couple different internet venues, a couple different people evincing shame about the fact that their homes weren't nicer. Maybe the context isn't that important, but one of them, for example, was a college professor married to a grad student (or maybe vice versa, I don't remember) who attended a social occasion at another faculty member's home, and came home and just sobbed because the other woman had a beautiful, spotless, tastefully and impeccably decorated suburban house, while she and her husband lived in a crowded and cluttered *trailer* that needs some work. Sobbed not out of envy, but out of shame, shame that something was seriously wrong with her, that if only she had her act together better somehow, that if only she were somehow a better, more capable person, she too would have the incredibly lovely home her colleague does. Furthermore she was sure (without any complete evidence) that *all* her colleagues had better, prettier, cleaner houses than she does and furthermore, that people almost imperceptibly sneered when they heard her address and thus figured out that she lives in a trailer park.

Okay, we'll get back to what people replied to this obviously depressed woman, but you can see why I'm bringing this up, right? I've been struggling a lot with similar type feelings, as you may have been able to glean, and it's ironic, because three or four years ago, when I was in the midst of massage school and D was really bad, and the whole second floor of my house was such a disaster that for a straight year I wouldn't let anyone up there (not even the Benevolent L who knows and sees all and judges none), I didn't feel this shame about it. As anyone who has been reading since the beginning of this blog knows, I've spent the past two years cleaning and organizing and redecorating and trying to make things better and nicer and prettier, and it's gotten so at this point it's just making me feel worse and more guilty. The more I pay attention to it, the more hopeless it seems. For everything I do, for everything I make better, I see two other things that look correspondingly more shabby, and my progress has been so slow from lack of money and lack of a contractor husband (or anyone else) to help me do the work and from laziness and from incompetance. And when I am depressed, that all spirals into "if you had your shit together like a normal person, Andrea, you'd have money and a husband and you wouldn't be so lazy and incompetant, and therefore you'd have a beautiful house inside and out like so-and-so." Before anyone feels compelled to correct me, I do know that's bullshit. It's just the irrational shame the depression brings.

But here's the other thing. When the Benevolent L was here for my surgery, we were in my little massage room upstairs--not, sadly, to do massage--and she said something along the lines of "this room is so beautiful and peaceful, I love it..." I look at that room and see the ripped up and stained carpeting, and the fact that there are four different paint samples up on the wall and it still hasn't been painted, and the broken closet door, and the Target bags under one of the tables that have floating shelves in them that will go on the walls after I do finally effin' paint, and the cable across the floor (don't ask), and blah blah blah. She looks at that room and sees the pretty curtains and the slipper chair and my beautiful vases and candles and the leather sofa with the pillows and the furry throw and the things that *are* up on the walls and the cozy quilt on the massage table. I see what's wrong and she sees what's right.

And I think of that, and I think that besides the irrationality of "if only I were a better person, I'd have better stuff", the other irrationality of being ashamed of your house not being good enough is that the vast majority of people who enter it aren't going to notice what's "wrong" or judge you if they do. Oh, yeah, some people are assholes. (But do we or should we care about the opinions of assholes, hmm?) But most people are going to notice the things they *like*--your cute and/or comfy sofa or your lovely woodwork or your stunning view or how nicely you've arranged your photos or what an interesting collection of books you have or how good whatever you're cooking smells. Etc. They're not running down some checklist in their head of god, doesn't s/he ever dust? and there's no granite in this kitchen! and those window treatments? noooo, I don't think so and if I had to rip out some drywall, it'd be fixed, patched, and painted the very next day, sniff. Unless they're assholes, in which case, see above.

So, what did people tell the depressed college professor? Oh, they told her about all the many academics they've known who've had, shall we say, less than tidy and organized homes (so that if she thinks all her colleagues have House Beautiful spreads for their living rooms, she's probably wrong) and they told her that there was no shame in owning a trailer she could afford over some huge house mortgaged to the hilt that she can't and that, like I said above, she was almost certainly judging herself far, far more harshly than anyone else ever would.

xoxo