To Do: Take a Bath and Ignore the Dishes

I’ve been sitting in my bathtub for an hour, reading a book and occasionally refreshing the water with a fresh burst of heat.

It mixes nicely with the cold guilt I feel about not doing all of the things I am “supposed” to be doing.

I have a to-do list, you see. That’s a sign of productivity, or at least, the lines crossing things off are. Accomplishing tasks is how you adult. I never put, “take a two-hour bath and ignore the dishes” on my list.

It’s a tale as old as time, or at least as old as modern parenting. So, here I am, both doing something enjoyable and eating myself up slowly, one should-do list item at a time.

It’s so ingrained. This is the first time in my life where I haven’t felt directly accountable to someone else. I’ve always lived with other people, where what I did or did not do affected them. I’m used to trying to please other people and avoid judgment. Of course, what I do affects my kids, but they don’t give a shit about the dishes or the toys. As long as they are fed and can find the Roku remote, they’re pretty happy.

There’s this common feeling among people with OCD — a feeling of being accountable to our feelings of “what if.” It’s a tendency to believe that anxiety is the only thing standing between us and whatever negative outcome we fear. That without accountability, we are going to lose all morals and murder people in the street or kick puppies or read 50 Shades of Grey out loud to preschoolers or something.

It’s always been an interesting dichotomy for an agnostic with an independent streak. But that’s why OCD is partially defined by being ego-dystonic.

So, now I have this life of less day-to-day accountability and it is like a grappling hook into the side of my amygdala. I am supposed to feel shame for not doing XYZ, because shame is what keeps things from falling apart.

But who is the judge and jury here? I don’t have a roommate or a husband who might look down on me because I’m not doing enough things enough.

Like, yeah, it makes sense to want my house to generally be clean enough that I don’t feel disgusting when people stop by. That’s reasonable. And I know clutter adds to my anxiety, so it is self-care to keep up somewhat. But feeling like I’m somehow failing as a human because sometimes I choose to let myself take priority is maybe a bit excessive.

Who am I doing all the things for? Who is steering this “should” ship?

I think it has stifled my writing, too. It’s difficult to make space in my brain for creativity among all the detritus of the day’s shame. So, instead, I watch Netflix and feel a sense of abject failure at life.

It’s an unmooring sensation, to question why, even a year and a half after I began life on my own, I still feel the shadow of someone else’s judgement.

I’ve got news for me, Rhiannon. The judgment call is coming from inside the house.