I used to worry that I had OCD.

At home, I'd spend hours cleaning my room. Folding, fluffing, fixing. Sweeping, straightening. Categorizing. And it felt good. It gave me a sense of purpose and control. I often pictured my bedroom as the physical manifestation of my mind--when it was in order, so was I. All thoughts color coded and alphabetized, filed away for easy retrieval. Everything in its place.

I've since come to understand that I don't have OCD. I know that I have the luxury of turning off my compulsion to clean; when there are more important things at hand, I can ignore it. I can live with disorder, I just prefer not to. I also know, at least partially, where this quirk of mine stems from. I grew up in a small, cluttered house with four other people (as well as 2-5 animal inhabitants at any given time). The one thing I prided myself on was my bedroom, and I worked fastidiously to make it tidy and clean, an escape from the disarray that consumed the rest of the house. But it wasn't just the end result that I valued: I used the act of cleaning as a way to bestow upon myself a false sense of power, whenever my parents' strictness made me feel helpless and claustrophobic. It was a nice distraction from reality. All that mattered was the pleasing crispness of folded sheets, the rows of bundled socks tucked away in drawers, the never-ending mission to exterminate every last particle of dust.

Today I have two different perspectives on cleaning that coexist in my head. As a college student with an unbelievably packed schedule, I often give in to my urge to organize, as it helps me maneuver through my days with efficiency. Everything in my room is stacked, folded, and exactly where it should be. My agenda planner is scrupulously detailed. And most days, I'm proud of those things. Sure, I spend more time organizing than your average student, but I could find any one of my belongings upside down and blind folded, which saves me time in the long run.

However, sometimes I wonder if I'm wasting my time. I know that no matter how many times I vacuum, the dust will re-accumulate. I know that it doesn't really matter if I make my bed every morning or not. I worry I am too heavily dependent on structure, that I care too much about materials and objects. Is life supposed to be filed away neatly, or should I learn to embrace the messy chaos of it all? I can never come up with a definitive answer, and I suppose I never will. But being mentally aware of my cleaning tendency helps me to keep it under control, and allows me to gain a heightened sense of self awareness.