If you give a moose a muffin...

I hate housework. I've always wanted to be one of those really organized people that has all of their poop in a scoop. You know, the people who apologize for their house being a mess when there isn't so much as a sock on the floor. I'll confess, I think that ALL of my laundry has been clean at the same time maybe twice in my life. It's weird, my mom says that when I was a little kid, I was oober organized and tidy. Then, about middle school it all went to hell. My dad actually took a picture of my room once for posterity and proof that it really was that bad. It would give those pooper scoopers nightmares.
So what exactly happened. Where did I go so wrong? I think it all goes back to that control thing. My parents got divorced when I was just a baby. Mom remarried when I was almost 4 (dad who took said photo). I spent every other weekend and 8 weeks out the summer with my biological father until the summer before my freshman year of high school. It was a lot of back and forth, and a lot of missing out on social activities. That coupled with the fact that I was sick ALL the time for one reason or another mostly tied to complications with my impaired kidney, I got weird.
Yeah, I was that kid. I was pasty and loved to read. I devoured books way above my grade level at the rate of 10-12 a week. I had a pension for eccentric fashions (one which I maintain to this day), and I was filled with indignation. Not to mention that I hit 5'5 and wore a size 10 shoe by the 5th or 6th grade. Elementary school was tough. I made friends with underdogs, defended my personal beliefs, and was on a one woman crusade for justice and plaid pants. Let's just say, I got beat up a lot (verbally and physically).
To steal the words of my brother, my life was a merry-go-round of madness (and with my vertigo, I was about to barf). But since there was no way to get off the ride, I did what any sensible teen would do - I rebelled, hardcore. Never pick up after myself - check. Choose friends just as unstable as myself - check. Smoke, drink, and commit other acts that inspire rage in parents - check. I was an emotional masochist on a bender.
That kind of self destruction takes dedication and I was a die hard trooper. Unfortunately but thankfully, the woeful misfortunes of others in my rebellion was a sufficient cold, hard slap in the face to finally acknowledge the potential repercussions of my downward spiral. 
I mostly snapped out of it, got myself together, and graduated high school with good marks. Unfortunately, nobody gets off that particular merry-go-round without some potentially serious scar tissue. Ergo, my inability to keep house. So, here I am, almost 20 years later cleaning up the messes teenage me threw at the fan. Fun times. But you know what I can do? I can step. And every time I reach a goal, I prove to myself that I can do it. And then I say, hey, I bet I can do some more. And every time I do some more, I feel a little bit stronger, so I do a load of laundry, or I cook a meal. And then the world is full of possibility, and I think, just try and stop me now.