Slaying the Closet Monster

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I'm on my way to Romance Writers of America (RWA) conference. Post your comments and I'll answer them this evening.

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Do you remember when you were little, left alone in a dark room to sleep all by yourself? I do. I remember it so clearly. Lying in the bed, Wilber my stuffed pig tucked close to my side to keep me safe, and my imagination working overtime.

Mom had already checked under my bed, so I knew the monster hadn’t hidden there. There was only one place left for him to hide in waiting--waiting for me to fall asleep and then he would creep out of the shadows and attack. And yet for the life of me, I couldn’t make myself reach for the knob and open that door. Without a doubt, I knew, the monster lurked in my closet.

Amazingly, I grew up without that monster ever showing his face. I don’t think I actually forgot about him during my teen years. I’d lie in that dark room, my imagination working overtime. Ahh, but it wasn’t monsters I imagined. It was David Cassidy, AKA Keith Partridge. However, occasionally when I’d hear a thump in the night, I’d tuck Wilber a tad closer to my side to keep me safe. (Hey, I really liked Wilber)

Eventually, I grew up. Felt more confident, secure. I knew what was real and not so real. So I gave up David Cassidy, but Wilber got to stay.

Then I became a mom and I had to do the nightly checks under the bed. And one night, my daughter asked. “What about the closet?”

While what I wanted to tell her was, “Hey, I did the under-the-bed check, I’ve given you Wilber, don’t push your luck,” I tapped into my maternal instincts instead, pulled up my big girl panties, snatched up Wilber to go with me, and I opened the closet door to show her no monster lurked in the dark creepy shadows of her closet.

Fast forward twenty years. Wilber has gone to rest in stuffed animal heaven, where I’m sure he has gotten his angel wings, pissing off everyone who ever said, “I’ll do that when pigs fly.”

Luckily, I’m not one of those people. Nope, I seldom say “never, ever.” My flaw is saying, “I’ll do it when I get around to it.” My hubby even bought me a coined-shaped rock that has the word, “roundtoit” on it, so when I say, “I’m gonna clean the closets when I get a ‘round to it,’” he says, “You already have one. Do you think you might be a procrastinator?” Now, Wilber flying around heaven doesn’t bother me, but my husband saying that plum pisses me off.

Why? Because whenever a flaw has a name, it becomes so much more. Yup, when a flaw gains a title, it becomes a “condition.” Oh, it doesn’t stop at that stage, because conditions quickly become syndromes and mental illnesses for which doctor even offers pills. And in a blink of an eye, you’ll see yourself, or someone just like you, on a reality show.

So, I’m sort of coming out of the closet and admitting it. I’m a champion procrastinator. Wait, let me take that back, I’m not a procrastinator about everything. But when it comes to cleaning out closets, I’m the queen of procrastination and a clutter lover to boot.

Something about a closet just says, “Toss anything in here and you don’t have to ever worry about me ever again.” Adding clutter to a closet feels natural to me. It’s almost as if I’ve been brainwashed by the closet monster to feed him clutter.

Have you seen the show Clean House that Oprah talks about? If so, then you pretty much have an idea of what my walk-in, unwalkable closet looked like before I slapped my husband silly for his roundtoit comment, prayed to Wilber for protection, got Oprahfied, and pulled my big girl panties up and came to a conclusion. The conclusion being that I was NOT taking a pill for my flaw!!! And just in case Oprah showed up, I didn’t want to be the one who killed her for fear she’d peek into my closet and have an intervention show about some clutter-loving, closet-cleaning-impaired romance writer who believes in monsters. So I did it. I confronted the beast.

Now as an older, wiser woman in her forties, I’ve learned a lot about childhood fears and monster myths. And I’m here to tell you that the closet monster really exists. Who else could have made such a mess in there? Yup, I came face-to-face with that monster, too. He had the face of my flaws, of my fears, but I held strong and armed with my roundtoit rock and Wilber power, and I did it. I fought the monster.

It wasn’t easy. I found clothes that fit me six sizes ago! The monster roared its ugly head and tried to go after my self-esteem. I counter punched by insisting I was on a diet. I found styles that should have never come into being, or at least not in my closet. So when the monster attacked my sense of style, I blocked that blow by insisting we’re all allowed one or two fashion faux pas.

I found cat food cans, which my dog Bosco--who passed away only a year after Wilber—would steal from the bathroom garbage and horde in the closet to lick clean. The monster tried to stab at my sense of cleanliness. I stood up to that one by insisting they weren’t dirty. Bosco had licked them clean.

So, the closet monster went back to my clothes. I found outfits that went out of style with David Cassidy. I had no defense for that one. I took that blow full force. Embarrassingly, I found clothes that still had tags on them. I fought off the attack of being wasteful by blaming a friend who insisted the outfit looked great on me. She’s now an ex-friend because I realized she didn’t have my best interest at heart. Those outfits brought that fact home.

Now I have to tell you, cleaning out my closet gave me a sense of power. I have since cleaned out my downstairs hall closet, my upstairs hall closet, and my extra bedroom closet.

Slaying monsters can be addictive. I won’t go so far as to say that it was fun. I hated doing it. But I’m glad it’s done. I won’t go so far to say I’ll never allow them to get that way again. Because I know sooner or later, I’ll give in, fall prey to my flaw, my condition, my syndrome, and I’ll start feeding the monster again by tossing objects into the closet that should be tossed in the garbage.

But for now, I’m enjoying my victory. However, to this day, or I should say night, when I lay in bed and hear a slight noise, the first place my frightened gaze shoots is to the closet door. And if left open, I will get up and close it and with each step I’ll wish I had Wilber clutched close to my side. Hubby doesn’t like to follow me to the closet.

So what about you? How do your closets look? What are you afraid of? What were you afraid of as child? Do you procrastinate? Come on, let’s share a little.