I wasn’t.
Deep house cleaning started after the official diagnosis. After the first telling of the horrible secrets. After the realization that I wasn’t going to get support from my family. After I came to terms with the fact that I was the victim, but I was going to have to save myself. After figuring out that I could trust my husband, but I still had to be my own person and do my own work.
It’s a long, arduous journey, full of ups and downs, major discoveries and minor setbacks. I’ve purged emotionally through reams of computer paper, journals and spiral notebooks. I’ve talked through hundreds of hours of therapy. I’ve cried buckets of tears, screamed a little (not as much as my therapist would like). I’ve lost and gained who knows how many pounds, and tossed out lots of old pictures and lots of old beliefs.
Deep cleaning is hard work. I’ve read about people who stress about getting rid of their children’s old school papers, and while I’m sure it is hard, I can’t help but think about getting rid of whole pieces of my childhood. But maybe I need to turn it around. Think about reclaiming pieces of my childhood that got lost in the awfulness. So maybe part of the cleaning is more archaeological -- the unearthing of portions of myself long since buried under the rubble of abuse.
I always wanted to be Indiana Jones.
