My mom would always get on to me for being so messy, until one day she finally realized that there was a door to the Robin’s Egg Blue room that contained all of it. I have always been messy. I still am. One thing I am not, though, is dirty. I am most definitely the direct opposite of dirty. Anything that is dirty I make sure and clean it until those Inchworm Green germs and their ancestors are destroyed.
* * *
When I was just a 5 year-old, the troubles started. My parents had always fought, but these troubles were different. They were beyond different. My dad had just finished school and my mom had a job working for a local law firm. My dad got a job at an incredible business and my mom was done with work by around noon. So, my dad would drop me off at kindergarten in the Blue Gray morning and my mom would pick me up in the Goldenrod afternoon. As the school year went by, though, I started to arrive later and later to kindergarten. I would get upset at my dad and cry, but he would just end up yelling at me and telling me that there’s nothing he can do about it. My mom would pick me up at the same time, but each time I’d see her she’d be more and more tired looking. I would constantly ask her what’s wrong, but she would just look and me, pat my Tumbleweed hair, and tell me not to worry about it.
* * *
Each night I spend over 3 hours scrubbing down my apartment. My room never gets touched. Everything else in the apartment gets so scrubbed that it permanently smells like lemon Pinesol. I take the Lemon Yellow liquid and squirt it into a bucket, take a new sponge out of the package, and scrub my kitchen, walls, bathroom sink, toilet, tub, shower, and floors until I feel satisfied and dump the Raw Umber colored water outside and throw the sponge in the dumpster. When I walk back to my apartment, I generally have to leave my front door open for 5 minutes until it smells normal again. As much as I hate the smell of cleaner, I have to do it. Then, after I am done, I walk into my messy room and climb into my unmade bed.
* * *
One day I was so late to Kindergarten that my teacher pulled my dad aside and told him she was concerned about my constant tardiness. She wondered if there was anything she could do to make it easier for me to get to school on time, because if I continued in being tardy I would miss too many days of school and have to be held back a year. A lot of what she was saying didn’t really make sense, but my 5 year old self understood perfectly well that “held back a year” meant that all my friends would go to first grade and I wouldn’t get to go with them. My eyes welled up with tears as my dad told my teacher fine, and walked out of the room without even giving me a hug goodbye. Somedays my dad would act like this, he would come out of his bedroom the most depressed and sadistic person on the face of the earth. Other times he would walk out of his room happy as a clam and acting like the cloudy winter light peeking through the windows were instead Unmellow Yellow rays of sunshine. Those were the days when I didn’t care if I was late for school. Those were the days when he’d take me to get doughnuts and a Barbie Doll before school, so we’d be late and happy on purpose.
* * *
For some reason when I walk into my room, I can feel a sort of peace. The Tropical Rain Forest walls bring just the right lighting so that I can sit down and relax just by looking at the walls. Tropical Rain Forest has always been my favorite color, it’s so warm and deep. Everywhere else in the apartment gives me a headache. The White walls with the Macaroni and Cheese cabinets under the florescent light messes with my eyes and I can only stay in the living room/ kitchen combo only long enough until I’m done with whatever I’m doing. Maybe I should paint in there too. Actually, maybe its the florescent lights. They always give me a headache. I think that the world needs to permanently get rid of florescent lights. They only do two things: cause people to look washed out and give people headaches.
* * *
This trend continued for the rest of the year until I was in first grade, then I was able to ride the bus by myself. Now, things started changing, heavily. The only time I would see my dad was on his sunny days and on the Saturdays when we’d go and visit his office for lunch. I would always play with the tape and paperclips while my little sister would scribble on his computer paper. This would continue for half an hour until my mom would come and pick us up. The whole time my dad not saying anything, if it was one of those days. The rest of the days, I would get home from school and my mom and little sister would be either making cookies or creating some new arts and crafts until dinner. Then around 8:30 we’d go to bed, generally not hearing my dad come home.
* * *
I feel bad for whoever I end up marrying someday. My clean-freak side does generally scare relationships away, so maybe I won’t ever have to deal with it. I have had roommates in the past, but they’ve gotten in the way. Humans really are disgusting things. I couldn’t deal with them. One would leave her dishes in the sink, all the time. I’d ask her to clean them until one day she looked at me and told me that a sink is to hold dirty dishes, not to just stand there disinfected. I looked at her, raised my eyebrow and went into my room. She didn’t stay very long. Another roommate I had would always drink the water directly from the faucet when she would brush her teeth and leave toothpaste all over the faucet head, which would gross me out. So, I would put a clean paper cup with her name on it each night until she got the hint. When she did finally understand what I was telling her (I would clean the faucet immediately after she brushed her teeth) she got really offended and moved out the next month. It was a pity, I actually liked her.
* * *
One night I decided to stay up to see my dad come home. My mom tucked me into bed and then while she was putting my little sister to sleep I snuck out of my room and sat on our Manatee leather sofa until I fell asleep. I woke up when my dad pulled into the driveway. I looked at my Mulberry Barney and Friends watch that I got for my 6th birthday and tried to tell time, but couldn’t quite figure it out. Right then, my mom walked out of the hallway, so I threw our Violet Blue, Tickle Me Pink, Mango Tango and Black afghan over my head and curled up underneath. While looking through the holes and holding my breath I successfully remained unnoticed. My mom walked into the kitchen table and pulled a chair out noisily and sat down. The hot air was stifling me, and I was getting desperate for fresh air. The same time I created a small opening with my toes, my dad walked in.
* * *
I really should clean my room, but I don’t have time. Between work and cleaning the rest of my apartment I’m tired by the time I am free. I guess there’s always the weekends. The weekends are my heaviest cleaning day of the week. In the morning I wake up at 7, go to the gym for an hour, eat my breakfast consisting of granola and yogurt, and begin. I start by wiping down the Eggplant couch, then move to shampooing the Desert Sand carpet after vacuuming, then I wipe down all the walls and ceiling, and move to the Kitchen counters, stove, sink, fridge, pantry, and garbage can, then to the bathroom sink, toilet, tub, and mirrors. After all of that I wrap it up with a really long cleaning of the floors. I open the windows, put on my coat, and go to lunch or dinner--depending on how long it takes me. The whole time hoping a friend might call me.
* * *
My dad walked right passed me into the kitchen. My mom started with small talk, mainly talking about his day and what happened during her day. The Raw Sienna table clacked under my mom’s fingers as she strummed them in the awkward silence. “Have you been doing it again?” “Doing what?” “You know exactly what I’m talking about.” “No, I don’t think I do.” “You know they’re going to catch you.” “No, they won’t, you’re crazy, you know. There’s nothing wrong with what I do. It makes me happy, makes me forget.” “I thought I used to make you happy and make you forget. You have daughters, what do you think will happen if you get them involved in your little ‘happy time’?” “Nothing will happen, and don’t you DARE bring the girls into this. I’m under control, do you understand?” After he said this, I crawled over to the corner that separated the living room and kitchen. Still under my blanket I peaked through the holes and watched as my dad, in his white button up shirt and Razzmatazz tie pick up my mom by the elbows and shake her. “This is all your fault you know, you caused my problems. You’re always gone. And if you’re here you just sit there and blab on and on about your day and your problems. What about my problems? I work all day to provide for this family and all I ask for is something for me. I found the stuff that helps me get away, and now you’re telling me I’m not allowed?!” “Look at you! Look at you! Your skin is sagging, you have bruises on your arms, and you’re constantly depressed.”
Looking at this scene I started to whimper. I realized that my parents would realize that I was there, but I didn’t care. They both heard me and made their way toward the hall. My dad looked at me with a look that I will never forget. It was a mix of terror and detachment from the world. His face went from Cerise to Fern and back to Cerise red again, and I became scared looking into his eyes with dark circles of Vivid Violet underneath. Through my cries, he picked me up by the waste, shook me violently, and through me against the trash can causing it to tip over. I looked around and everything was covered in the Yellow Green raw egg and flower leftovers from the cooking adventure earlier in the night. My mom went to go help me through screams of terror as he smacked her across the face causing her nose to break and the Radical Red blood to go over the entire kitchen floor. My dad looked at what he had done and ran out the door. After that day we never saw him again, mainly because we moved but most likely because my mom won’t allow him to see us.
* * *
My apartment is a disaster, even though I clean it every day. I know it is clean, but for some reason I can’t ever allow it to feel clean. As much as I spray down the trash can, and scrub the tile floors until I can see my reflection in them, I can’t ever allow it to be clean. I wish everything was like brand new Crayola Crayons. It would make things a lot easier. If life was as clean and pristine as a new crayon I wouldn’t torture myself like this and get anxious every time I see a single speck on the floor.
