Closets

Closets. We don't think about them much, but interestingly enough, they have been a frequent topic of conversation around here lately. It started at a super bowl party, where the lovely hostess' pantry looked like a clip of a magazine. I started reflecting on my home. Sure, I can keep up appearances. As long as you don't come to our house on a Thursday or Friday, I will generally let you in the door without much hesitation. It's not the cleanest. It's lived in. You may find crumbs and handprints, you may find toothpaste in a sink or spots on a mirror. There are coats and toys and shoes about. But generally, if you are showing up on my doorstep, I will let you in.
My closets and cabinets on the other hand, now those are another story. There is generally a loud sigh that is released anytime I open a closet or cabinet. Because most weeks, the only way I can keep up appearances on the outside, is to close some of my clutter behind closed doors.
I am not proud of it. And it's not like I find it acceptable or want to spend an extra 10 minutes looking for Pook's other shoe. But it's a survival technique. Sometimes the way life works is that we stuff the things we can't handle dealing with into a closet. About every couple months I will manage to weed through a closet enough to make it functional and acceptable again. I get rid of things, I sort through things, and put them back neatly where they belong. But they never stay that way. They never stay neat and organized. It's just really hard work.
Pooks came home from her dad's last week really upset about her closet. She has always loved closets- they are small, cozy spaces where she keeps all of her treasures and imagination. She has been known to sleep in her closet, to play in her closet, and to hide in any closet she can. It is a safe place for her. She was upset that her closet had been disrupted. That someone made her watch and help to move stuff from what is no longer her closet. "Smad" that her closet had to be relocated at all. At first I didn't get it. But as the week progressed, it really made me think about the things I hold in my closets. In my cabinets. That when BR and Pooks start rooting around in the cabinet, I start getting really nervous. Not only will they not be able to find what they are looking for, but they will be touching all the stuff I may be covering up in my closet. They may uncover things I forgot about. They will be moving it and it may not go back the way it was before. They may touch something and everything may fall out at them. Because that's the thing about closets. What they hold can be so personal. And I realized that just like everyone else, Pooks buries things for safe keeping in her closet.
The closets in my house are a great example of someone living with depression. And while yes, I am one of those people, I mean this is the most generic of senses.
People with depression are often able to put on a show. They can hold it together when they need to. They can make it seem like everything on the surface is perfect and put together. Their houses may be neat and clean and they might invite people in. You may set foot inside their lives everyday and never think that there could be anything different about them. But further inside...inside of their closets are piles. Piles of feelings, of events, of questions, of fears. There are piles on top of piles, piles hiding things, and piles that no matter how hard you sort, will never have a place. In those piles are memories, keepsakes, things so precious you wonder how they ended up lost in a pile. There is also a lot of trash, a lot of grime, grime that sticks and clouds and camouflages all of those treasures.
Sometimes, your closet gets cleaned and there is this HUGE sense of relief. And for a few weeks, you live with the doors of your closet wide open and you do everything in your power to enjoy all of your thoughts being put together and in the right place. You feel proud that your piles are small and that you know where to find things and life is efficient. But you know it won't last. You know one day, you will put one item that one piece that doesn't fit in your life, and continue to shove in emotions until the closet can't hold anymore. You know that there will come a time when you can no longer find the words you're looking for. When it takes you longer to retrieve that treasured feeling. When the pile grows until it bursts the door open, and you just can't shove it all back in the way it was. When the door won't shut and you just can't hide it anymore. And you're stuck either looking at it, walking around it, or dealing with it. If you have the energy, support and coping skills, the cycle starts over. If you don't, the piles start to grow on the outside. Until you no longer feel like you can even let people in. Until no one tries to knock on your door anymore. Until you're spending a lot of time, alone, overwhelmed by all of your stuff that can no longer be hidden in a closet.
Don't be fooled by appearances. Closets have doors for a reason.
On most days, I will let you into my house without reservation. And if I trust you, I will even let you see my closet. But don't expect me to let you rummage through it or for me to keep it clean. The clutter of my mind is deep. It's jumbled. It's complicated. Sometimes all I have the energy to do is close the door and pretend it's not full of stuff.