Under the term, I understand putting things in their ideal state and place. Not just stuffing them in the closet and pretending everything is fine.
So, cleaning might include fixing shoes, spinning up that handful of green fibre that lives on my table and this weekend, I gathered up all my courage and pulled out everything from bottom shelves in the closet. Some of the boxes weren't touched for yeas, bags with things that never got finished those ten years ago when I was sewing quite a bit were crammed in the darkness...
Among the remnants of my short sewing career, I found a skirt I made some 10 years ago. Or rather 15. I didn't really measure it but the qualified guess is that I was some 20cm less around the equator back then. And that was before my anorexic times when I felt like a fat ugly blob of lard.
Which was actually pretty triggering. I still haven't fixed an appointment with my dermatologist because I want to get rid of a mole that grew on my beer gut and I just feel ashamed of that fat mass. And that the cracked skin on my feet will be attributed to my excess weight.
This all gets boring after a while. It's boring even for myself and I'm living through the mangled emotions, disordered eating, awful body image and the nagging thoughts. Every time I eat out, I'm nervous that someone is watching how that awful person even dares to add milk to her coffee, or how the sack of fat dares to buy food. That chocolate was for a friend I went to see yesterday, by the way. He lives some 20 minutes walking from our place and when I got there, I felt pretty tired and my feet were aching so not only am I a bag of fat, I'm also a rotten one.