Pink is the Color of My Recovery
On healing from domestic violence
The better I feel, the more I am inclined to alphabetize my freezer and categorize my nail polish by color. I delight in organization, and, wild as it might seem, my compulsiveness is a sign that I am healing.
I scrub my countertops with multipurpose cleaners and sweep several times a day and I feel glad at this drive to clean because, for a time, it left me.
Depression room is a real thing. As a woman who wrestled with compulsive traits even as a little girl, I never envisioned myself becoming someone whose mental illness manifested itself in my home.
But contrary to the beliefs of my immediate family, mental illness is not a choice. Wildly enough, my family tree is rife with undiagnosed, untreated mental illness that has wreaked more than enough havoc on all of us. Including me.
In childhood, I found joy in cleaning. I lamented my little sister’s messiness and tried my best to teach her how to be more orderly. How to be more compulsive, maybe.
She cleaned her side of our shared bedroom by throwing her belongings onto and underneath my bed, leaving the stuffed animals I had so meticulously lined up in complete disarray. After returning her belongings to their rightful place, I would re-tuck my sheets…