Don't be fooled by my slovenly home, I'm actually a perfectionist struggling to relax, writes Eirin Thompson.
THE AMERICANS have a name for it. They call it Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome (or Chaos), to describe a house so dreadfully untidy that visitors are an impossibility.
I suffer somewhat myself. Since having my own home and family, I have avoided cultivating the dropping-around-for-coffee type of friendship, because it would be just too embarrassing. There are the carrier bags of junk on their long journey out the door, the listing pile of unsorted post, green gravel in the bottom of the unlit fish-tank, children's discarded garments and shoes strewn in every room. Also, the whole place feels sticky and there seem to be crumbs everywhere. (Heaven forbid anyone should call in needing to use the loo; there is never enough bleach for a family with three young sons, none of whom is a crack-shot.)
I discovered the Chaos diagnosis when writing my debut novel, about a woman at crisis point with her unmanageable home and floundering marriage. Researching whatever help, if any, might be available to her, I simply googled "My house is a big mess" and was amazed to discover a global community of hopeless housekeepers, popularly known as "messies". As well as their own acronyms, they have a network of on-line support groups and also mentoring websites which will e-mail the afflicted daily, with small steps towards a tidier existence.
Many of the messies appear to be articulate, educated people, some of whom aren't above boasting about their high levels of achievement in other spheres. Under changed circumstances, however - which mostly means being at home with kids - they can't even seem to get the dishes done in time for their partners returning from work in the evenings. They know they aren't lazy. They have the sensation of struggling hard towards an end. Yet the results are failure. They crave an explanation.
For what it's worth, I have one: I believe that messies are actually perfectionists. At a glance, this seems unlikely, because perfectionists' homes are perfect, right? Immaculately tidy, with a place for everything and everything in its place, groomed carpets, gleaming surfaces, no detritus. Well, maybe. But this depends on a definition of perfectionism which states that everything must be done perfectly, and this is only half the story. The full explanation of a perfectionist is, I believe, someone who does everything perfectly or not at all. And that makes for very different results.
If you suspect yourself of being a messie, ie incapable of maintaining a largely successful domestic regime, do you recognise any of the following: a) the perfectly ordered wardrobe, with clothes grouped by colour and all hung up facing the same way; b) the financial filing in a ring-binder or even a shoe-box, with documents in date order and all transactions neatly checked off; c) the airing cupboard with towers of bath-towels, hand-towels and flannels on the lower shelf and piles of sharply folded sheets and pillow cases on the upper? In other words, are there little pockets of perfection for which you are responsible, even in your otherwise chaotic environment?
In my case, it is my kitchen cupboards. In one I have a perfect collection of boxes and tins, each facing forward with a bold label, such as "biscuits" or "lunchbox treats". I even fragrance the space with home-made sachets of Earl Grey tea and ground coffee. In another, I have exactly the right number and variety of canned foods, all stacked with their labels facing out. When such hidden order behind the disorder is uncovered in my book, by my heroine's feisty new friend, the friend exclaims: "Your life is f**king inside out." This is about right. The perfectionist does the little things to the highest standards, often at the expense of the wider domestic landscape.
So is there any hope for the confirmed messie, or is s/he doomed to continue endlessly in the same unproductive patterns? Well, for me, the first and crucial step of recovery is the revelation that perfectionism is, in fact, the underlying condition, rather than, say, obsessive compulsive disorder, though I admit there might be a link. Thereafter, I suspect it's largely a process of retraining oneself to, for example, get the vacuum cleaner out a bit more often, but care less about getting into the corners.
Eirin Thompson's debut novel,Notes for the Next Time (Hodder Headline Ireland, €10.65) is out in paperback. The sequel,The Undercover Mother , will be published in paperback this month