‘Hi, my name is Betsy Tampke, and I’m seventeen years old.’

‘Hi Betsy’

I stare down at my hands, unwilling to make eye contact with those around me.

The group leader places his hand on my knee, trying to give me courage to continue.

‘Come on, Betsy. Acceptance is the first step, you can do this.’

I swallow my pride and take a deep breath.

‘I’m seventeen years old, and I have a messy room.’

Everyone applauds me, and I begin my road to recovery.

In case you couldn’t tell, this MRA (Messy Rooms Anonymous) meeting is all a product of my imagination. Unfortunately, there is no support group for teenagers who are incapable of organizing their desks or folding their socks. Maybe if there was, I would care more that my carpet hasn’t been vacuumed in months and my sheets are falling off my bed. In fact, I think my main problem is that I can’t seem to acknowledge that I have a problem.

For example: I don’t think of myself as a hoarder, yet I still have dried up corsages from all of my dances in a margarita glass on my dresser, Teen Vogues from 2003 under my nightstand (one of them has Ashanti on the cover) and timed writings over ‘Heart of Darkness’ from my sophomore English class in my desk. Actually now that I think about it, I think I have every notebook I have ever used piled on top of my bookcase.

Sure, I try to throw these things away, but something inside me says, ‘Maybe you are going to need these eighth grade notes on how to make imperfect fractions someday’ or ‘You know what? Hollister graphic tees might just come back in style.’

I think my problem is that I am just too gosh darn practical. My clothes stay unfolded, my bed stays unmade and my bathroom stays toxic, because I am too good at time management. I prioritize how I spend my time, I sacrifice things like hanging up my dress, putting away my make up or pushing in my drawers, so that I have time to do my homework, watch ‘Vampire Diaries’ and sleep.

Unfortunately, the mess in my room doesn’t disappear just because I ignore it. Instead, it builds… and builds… and builds. Until it is simply it is too massive for me to ignore it. When I can’t lift my hamper or see my floor, then, and only then, will I decide that it’s probably time to do my laundry. It just makes more sense to devote eight hours of one day to a task that might have taken me 15 minutes throughout the week to do. Right?

I have tried hopelessly to explain this to my mother, but she just doesn’t seem to get it. She tries tirelessly to cure me. She has dressed up my room with lamps and rugs, reasoning, ‘maybe if your room was cuter you would work harder to keep it clean.’ She has tried to embarrass me in public by making speeches like ‘I admire your determination to accomplish your goals, I just wish one of those goals was to clean your room.’ She has grounded me, yelled at me and cried to me. She has even enlisted the help of my sisters to sneak into my room and throw away my personal belongings. Yet nothing seems to work.

I really do wish I was clean, just like I wish I had good hand writing and that I could turn off the lights with my mind like Matilda. But unfortunately I just can’t seem to make having a clean room one of my priorities. Maybe it’s time to page through the Kansas City Star to find the nearest MRA meeting. . .