I’m Not Messy. I’m Creating a System That Only I Understand.

I’m Not Messy. I’m Creating a System That Only I Understand.

BY BRITTINEE PHILLIPS

A starfish. That’s the way I wake up most mornings, in the starfish position. 

My blackout curtains keep the world outside longer as I adjust my eyes and wonder where I left my glasses. A fury of anxiety rolls over me as my mind begins to think about all the things I have to do and all the things I have to think about doing. Montgomery, my JRT beagle mix and trusted bestie, brings me out of the spiral with soft licks. He’s slept in bed with me most of his 11 years — especially after a fresh bath.

His emotional support is how I start my day. After I give my bladder a much-needed release, I head back into my bedroom. From the doorway, I see clean clothes piled high, dirty ones nearby — abstract art. My brain flashes to past beautifully decorated bedrooms in old apartments I had. How did I keep this system together back then? Money. Mental bandwidth. Physical stamina.

My pride tries to see my current mess as creative chaos. I tell myself that clutter is communication, not failure, as this ADDitude piece puts it. But as I look at the laundry piles, I wonder if this is how I truly feel.

The perfectionist in me misses my glamorous decor and structure, while my obsessive personality tells me I’m ashamed of my failed attempts to reclaim the perfectionism I used to shape my identity with.

The Pinterest-perfect bedroom I imagine feels far away. The internal voice starts: You’d know where your glasses were if you had a nightstand. You could lay clothes on a chaise — if you had one. That voice makes me feel like I’m failing. 

I push past judgment, searching for clean underwear. Shower calls — I left the water running. My critical self-analysis must wait. 

After my shower, I return to let the world in and crush the dark with light. The bright sun bounces into my room. My new system suddenly feels less like a mess. My 2025 vision board hangs above my dresser, which houses jewelry trays, faux crystals, knicknacks, and my journal. These structures remind me how far I’ve come toward acceptance. Though I avoid my closet and main bathroom — the undone projects inside would steal today’s peace. Maybe a bout of hyperfocus will bring me back to them.

On the way to the kitchen, I pass my cute, chaotic gaming room. My desk setup? Chef’s kiss — minus the sticky notes and cord monster. Still, there’s comfort in this function-first space, which Faigy Talks ADHD breaks down well. But this room stings too. It’s supposed to be my creative hub, yet I often feel disappointed that I can’t snap my fingers and finish it. I lack the funds to do so and a huge part of my system still sits in a storage unit 3,000 miles away.

In the kitchen, I see I’ve loaded half of my dirty dishes from my last meal prep. A win. Meal prepping is a ritual, but I fear one bad day breaking the routine. Pushing past that intrusive thought, I set out my oatmeal packets, almond milk, and ground flaxseed — nudges to finish what I start before I walk Montgomery. 

The kitchen never feels clean enough. It represents labor. Did I leave the oven on? Did I throw out old fruit? Yet still, it fits my system. The empty paper towel roll, important notes, bills, and cards with affirmations on my fridge, and splats on my stovetop and tea-making area — sometimes they whisper judgment…or shout survival. I worry less as disinfectant wipes, sanitizer, and spray cleaner wait nearby. 

A “mess”? Sure. But it’s mine and it’s working.

I pass my glass dining table, which has no chairs and serves as a dumping ground for all things paper. Beneath it, a tarp sits where a gold spray paint project died six months ago. Framed art leans nearby, still unhung. I remind myself what Apartment Therapy says: unfinished doesn’t mean unworthy.

My happiest space is the living room. Curtains are still drawn, but sunlight slips in anyway. This room is complete because I made sure to buy a comfy sofa before anything else. It’s light cream and modular with ottomans. My joyful pillows make it a cloud I love to fall into. Next to it are Amazon packages I still need to open and review. Ah, and my glasses! 

This living room feels put together, like I used to feel about myself. It’s become my shame-free zone, calm and safe, whereas the other rooms are unstable, triggers I attempt to avoid.  Across the room, my tiny TV stand holds a 40” flatscreen, nestled by a faux fiddle leaf plant, and cluttered with my PS4 and favorite games. The air purifier nearby hums, reminding me that I haven’t vacuumed. This nags me. I glance at a painted portrait of my grannie by my front door. “Good morning,” I whisper. “I know it’s ‘messy.’” 

Back in my living room, I grab up my cordless vacuum. Montgomery drops into a play bow. As I giggle at his joy, we zigzag around static things in the space. They live here too. I glance at my slowly-getting-there art wall. The middle area, bare, is surrounded by recently collected pieces. I remind myself: don’t hang anything in that spot until I get what’s in storage. No idea when I’ll afford that. 

Finishing up, I plug in the vacuum to charge and finally open the living room curtains. I see my patio staring at me — dusty, incomplete. Faux plants give the space form as a cutesy Pinterest-inspired relaxation nook. But dead plants and projects-in-waiting make me feel like I don’t deserve it. Instead, I decide to see placeholders for hope. I call for Montgomery and slip into my slippers. Oh shit! Trash. I grab the bag, his leash, and ignore the unflattened cardboard boxes near the door. They’re filed under “next time.”

Outside, I scan my system: what I’ve seen, what still needs doing — doctor’s appointment, groceries, freelance copy, next hair wash day. It’s only 9:15 am, I’ve got time before I ease into work mode. 

This new system works for me. Tomorrow, I might add or subtract things — the gift of my neurospicy brain. But today, I’ll make time to reflect on letting go of shame. Perfectionism isn’t me anymore, I have to accept that. 

Back inside with Montgomery, I switch slippers, wash my hands, and I’m ready for oatmeal. But first, I let myself pause in my happiest space — sun soaking in. 

Now…where’d I leave my phone?

BIO: Brittinee Phillips is a Black, fat, neurodivergent marketer and content creator with 15+ years in branding and storytelling across tech and gaming. Her work explores identity, labor, and CPTSD, late-diagnosed ADHD, and Autism. She’s been published in ZORA and is building a platform around financial stability – living a life full of ideas, unfinished drafts, and ambitious DIY projects.