Before My Morning Coffee
Dammit.
When I open the fridge, a container of pineapple falls out and spills juice as it skids across the floor. I count to three, so I don’t lose my temper. Not again. I grab a wet paper towel to wipe up the mess.
I can barely find the cream cheese. I manage on the second shelf, tucked away in the back. Not where I left it. Leftover container lids rest jauntily off to the side. The pungent odor of crusty, half-eaten pork dumplings hit my nostrils. Looking at the congealed mess makes my stomach turn. Hunting through the mishmash yields expired food. Hungry, I start a new DoorDash order.
By the end of the day the sink brims with dishes that should have been done by 9pm. I gave hints and numerous reminders. Here’s what’s going to happen: they’ll soak overnight, with me hoping they’ll be washed by noon the next day. Rinse and repeat. It’s difficult to keep my frustration in check. I want her to do things my way. For once.
My daughter is almost eighteen. She doesn’t understand that she is contributing to the deterioration of our home. I can’t blame teenage carelessness; the scene in the kitchen is a symptom of poor executive functioning and a disease which tears away meaning for the person who has it. My anger turns from disgust to sadness.
My daughter was diagnosed with schizophrenia as a young teen. It’s exceedingly rare—it impacts one percent of kids. She was always somewhat quirky as a child. It was difficult for her to clean her room up at the end of the day. All her Barbies, stuffed animals, and books littered the floor. I’d gently sing the “clean up, everybody clean up” song to help prod her in the right direction. Her face was a wall of confusion, wondering, “How do I start?” When I saw the look, I’d get on my hands and knees and start pulling things into piles. I started by grouping similar items together: dolls in one pile and stuffed animals in another. I thought it’d help her focus. It proved more confusing. But she did her best to help by putting the toys onto her bed or into bins I purchased for this specific reason. In about fifteen minutes, everything was back in order. My kiddo, still confused, looked shaken. But a slow smile crept across her lips because her mama was pleased.
It wasn’t until she started hiding in closets to escape the voices in her head that we learned schizophrenia also explained her lack of organizational skills. There was no guidebook on how to fix it, and I didn’t have a clue. I picked up whatever she left in her wake. I washed the dirty clothes she left on the floor and the dishes calcifying in the sink.
My mothering was a testament to organizing. I was responsible for maintaining order amidst the chaos of our world. I hated schizophrenia, and its invasion of our shared physical space was one of the hardest parts of the disease for me. It took over my role as Queen Bee. My carefully crafted universe died. As my daughter lost herself more and more often in delusions, I realized it wasn’t my house anymore. It was schizophrenia’s. I hated our home. There were too many visual reminders of the trauma we endured. Every corner holds a memory (they weren’t pretty).
Deep in my imagination, I envisioned our home looking like a Pottery Barn store. Pristine. Undisturbed. As if nobody lived there.
I wished I could turn back time to when I was single. Every pillow and tchotchke was in its rightful place. Now, some days, I was spinning like a little kid in the sun. Our world wouldn’t slow down. Schizophrenia broke us into many pieces. Some I had to throw away. Others I kept.
My daughter’s room is small with an overflow of treasures from the days when she was “normal.” Her room is filled with stuffed animals, books, and clothes. I’ve purchased hangers and bins to help her. I’ve worked on organizational strategies to make life easier. They failed. Schizophrenia kept winning. I’m tired of this losing game. I let the chaos stand. I avoid her room at all costs; it makes me nervous. It reminds me of my failure.
Her bathroom is filled with skincare creams, hot tools, and my cast-off makeup. The mirrors were never clean, filled with white streaks of I don’t know what. I buff them clean as best I can. It doesn’t matter that my daughter can’t see herself. Even while taking antipsychotics, she still experiences hallucinations that display a monster. It’s who she believed she was.
We downsized when we moved into this apartment, and it shows. It’s cramped and cluttered. Friends are no longer welcome. And it’s not because of my snappish pet chihuahua. I’ve stripped my apartment to the essentials. Easier to clean. Easier to look at. Easier for me.
My daughter is comfortable with the disarray. Thriving, actually. I’ve asked what she sees when all her stuff is strewn around the house. Her response, “It’s fine.” This attitude makes me fear we’ll be roommates for life. Oscar and Felix. Occasionally I think no one will want to live with her except me. During arguments, I lash out with the sentiment but immediately take it back. I curse my tongue, that was mean. I think maybe she’ll change (she won’t).
I ceded my perfect vision. It’s part of my past. Acceptance is slow. This is not my ideal, not my Pottery Barn dream. Possibly what I wanted wasn’t what I needed. I can’t accept this life was meant for me. We’re here, though, whether we like it or not.
As dawn breaks, I make my rounds tidying up for the day. Once complete, I take my work. Perfect as it’ll get.
About the Author
Brittany Miles writes fiction and essays exploring family, motherhood, mental health, and identity through lyrical, emotionally resonant storytelling. Her work appears in Newsweek, Business Insider, and The Seattle Times, and is forthcoming in Open Secrets Magazine, Tir Literary Magazine, and Minding Our Business: A Blacklandia Anthology on Mental Health and Healing.
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