My phone chimed: “Did you clean my house sis??!?! It looks amazing.” I smiled, then texted back, “I did! I’m so glad you’re happy about it. I wanted to do something nice for my sissy.”
Last fall, I cleaned my sister’s house while she and her family were out of town. They had to leave early in the morning the day after hosting a family gathering, so there was no time for my sister and her husband to clean up the aftermath. I couldn’t bear the thought of my sister — a homeschool mother of three kids under the age of 12 — and her husband — an emergency room nurse — coming home to a mess. So, after feeding their animals, I put “Friends” on in the background and got to work.
Cleaning is my love language, and it’s been this way for as long as I can remember. I was cleaning and organizing my childhood bedroom to mitigate my anxiety before I really even knew what anxiety was. I started doing laundry for my family when I was eight years old. Growing up, I often took my mom’s coffee mugs to the sink for her, and I’d regularly take the trash out before my dad could get to it. The day after my sister’s 16th birthday party, I cleaned up myself without being asked to. I was glad to do it.
I like to tell people, “I’m Monica Gellar, but without the secret messy closet.” I genuinely enjoy cleaning and organizing, and I’ve found it’s one of the best ways for me to show love to my humans, my animals, and myself.
I work hard, but I don’t earn a lot of money, so I can’t afford to shower my friends and family with gifts. Ahead of the holidays, I send a text message to my siblings that reads, “Hey, I can only afford to buy gifts for the kids this year, so please don’t feel obligated to buy me anything!” I’m not the friend to say, “drinks on me!” I’m rarely able to afford special treats and toys for my cats, and it’s been nearly a year since I’ve had my hair cut. Showing love to my friends, my family, my animals, and myself with money is something I simply can’t do very often. What I can do is clean.
Although my cats certainly benefit from my homebody ways (think: lap cuddles, snuggly naps, super clean litter boxes), showing love for my humans with quality time can be difficult. I suffer from chronic pain, I freelance, and I commute to a different town. I don’t live in the same town as most of my friends, and as the queer, liberal child of conservative Christians, my relationship with my parents depends on small doses of time together and the avoidance of heavy conversations.
I’m also a survivor of sexual violence, and physical affection with my human loved ones can sometimes be difficult for me. I usually enjoy hugs, but I also need my space. I’m not the friend who’s going to offer foot rubs or shoulder massages, and the only person I want massaging me is my sister. In fact, a friend of mine gave me a free massage certificate recently, and I politely requested to exchange it for a free breathwork class. I have a complicated relationship with touch that isn’t my fault and probably isn’t going to go away.
That’s why it’s so important to me to show my love by cleaning. When I hang out with my friends, I don’t leave my Starbucks trash in their vehicles, and I don’t leave my dirty wine glasses on their coffee tables. Last New Year’s, my period cramps were too severe for me to go hiking with my family after our lunch of black eyed peas, collard greens, and cornbread, so I loaded my parents’ dishwasher and took out the trash as I waited for the pain to ease up. When I’m feeling low or anxious, cleaning my home is the first thing I do to take care of myself.
Hopefully the day will come when I can afford to give more gifts, and maybe someday chronic pain won’t steal so much of my time. I don’t see my relationship with touch changing, but I’d love to be proven wrong. Regardless of what the future holds, though, I imagine cleaning will always be my love language — or perhaps one of them.
Elizabeth “Liz” Enochs is a queer writer from southeast Missouri. She’s the author of the nonfiction prose chapbook “Leaving the House Unlocked.”
