"Christine, Christine. Look at me and breathe,” the counselor said. “We are here to work through your panic OCD attack when you got the blue paint on your leg and stepped on a crack.” My counselor kept talking, but all I could hear was the voice of my mother screaming at my father, then, just like a domino effect, screaming at me.
I remembered how I would be forced to clean the house all the time. I sometimes thought of myself as Cinderella when I was little, although, without the magic and the beautiful ball gown. So basically, I thought of my childhood through the name Cinderella, which means little ashes. My mother would call my name every time she and my father were happy and on good terms, “Christine. Clean the house. Christine. Vacuum the rug. We are going to have a nice dinner as a family and I want the house clean." Christine, Christine, Christine, was all I would hear.
My happiness and the happiness of my parents never paralleled. If they were happy, I was stuck cleaning. If they were mad at each other, I was upset, but not cleaning. Overall, I never fully lived a childhood filled with joy and cheer. When I came to terms with how things were, I decided that I was happiest when the house was clean because that meant moments of peace in the house.
Clean house means peace to me. Messy house means destruction, sadness, anger, and so much more things that blocked me from my childhood.
"CHRISTINE, talk to me,” my counselor practically yelled. "You cannot just stay in your own little world daydreaming about the past. You are here to discuss with me, I’m here to help."
But still, all I heard was, Christine…