Lost and Found This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This work has won the Teen Ink contest in its category.

August 5, 2008
I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes I had forgotten to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, shoes. When I occasionally did laundry, I would dig up clothes I couldn't even recall purchasing. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, chapstick, matches, loose mints, coins, earring backings. I couldn't always see these things, but I knew that they were safe, nestled somewhere on a shelf. Like old friends in a phone book, I figured that someday I would find all the loose strings and tie them together.

One lonely day in August when all of my friends had yet to return from camp in Maine, visiting family in Florida, or some community-service trip in Mexico, something inside me began to itch. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every bodywash and bar of soap I could find. I brushed my hair and my teeth, but didn't feel any cleaner. I checked my e-mail, which was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.

I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mom on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their right place. I told my mom that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that for once I should clean my room. The thought itself made me nauseous. I went upstairs to sulk, feeling so overwhelmed that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. A plate of half-eaten pancakes sat on my desk, soggy with syrup from the morning. My bikini hung lifelessly from my doorknob, dripping pool water. My heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, molded by the twists and turns of the previous night. Piles of dirty clothes sat unsorted, collecting dust.

I stood in the middle of the cluttered room, breathing in the filthy air that I had become so used to. In the silence of that moment, I began to hear the clock ticking. I became aware of the moldy smell. I noticed that a spider had spun a shimmering line from my lamp to the top of my mirror. I shivered in disgust. I remembered that winter how my stuffed animal, Vanilla, had fallen behind my dresser and I hadn't noticed until I caught the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater, until it was too late and she was permanently covered in brown spots.

I suddenly felt sympathy for everything in my room that I had buried, never to be seen again. Lost items I had blocked out for years made their way back into my consciousness: my favorite yellow tank top, the picture of my mom and me on that boat in Jamaica, my baseball card collection.

I had an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust, and to climb up into the highest corners of my closet and rescue items that had been mingling with the spiders. The innocent piles were growing higher and higher until they were looming monsters before my eyes. They were threatening to swallow me whole. I had to get rid of them. And so I started to clean.

In a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me at camp. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I suddenly remembered the thrill of running naked through cold sprinklers with my cousins, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feel of his soft sweater rubbing warmly against my cheek each time he enveloped me in a hug. I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.

I sat with his picture, blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied him until I had memorized every line in his face. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again, and the relief was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought.

In the drawer next to my bed, I found a friendship bracelet my childhood best friend, Aubrey, had given to me before she moved to California. I traced the green and purple pattern with my thumb, realizing that I hadn't spoken to her in years. The next day I called her, and we talked all night, laughing about memories like dressing up as the Spice Girls for Halloween. She reminded me of the time we built a family of snowmen in my backyard and had a funeral for them when they'd melted. I had lost so many precious childhood memories over time, letting them slip away into the tide like grains of sand. It was the kind of conversation you never want to end because for each moment we talked, it felt like a bucket collecting droplets of water from a leak.

Under my bed I even found that picture of my mom and me in Jamaica. I had forgotten how turquoise the water had looked from our ship, but what really caught my attention, though, was my image. I had buck teeth, short hair, and pimples covering my face. I stared at that girl, barely able to recognize this person who had drowned in the mess of my room so many years before. I decided to completely re­organize and revamp my room so that all the books, belts, and baskets were in their right place. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.

The finishing touch was framing that photo and hanging it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.

This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.

This work has won the Teen Ink contest in its category. This piece won the May 2009 Teen Ink Nonfiction Contest.

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:) :) said...
Sept. 15, 2014 at 9:02 am
cool !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ktoc14 said...
Sept. 15, 2014 at 8:23 am
Loved it. Has anyone ever seen the show: HOARDERS     
matthew05 replied...
Sept. 15, 2014 at 9:04 am
hello who likes this story
yup yup replied...
Sept. 16, 2014 at 8:44 am
ianadams00 said...
Sept. 10, 2014 at 12:19 pm
Hi my name is Ian and I loved your story. The way that you used detail and not so much detail amazed. I would love to read more of you're work
guitargirl427 said...
Aug. 30, 2014 at 6:18 pm
This is a story a person can really connect to! I loved it!
abbycxxx said...
Aug. 28, 2014 at 3:27 pm
yeah yeah oollloo pomas pompies yeaaaaah
KFT22 This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Aug. 22, 2014 at 3:57 pm
Love how you closed it. Really nice job--a relatable and truthful piece.
monster...rns said...
Feb. 24, 2014 at 12:34 pm
rns- ral nice subject
lauren1nicole said...
Feb. 21, 2014 at 9:47 am
I could connect well with your story, even though my room is clean most days instead of dirty. My family has the same problem that you realized in the story. All the happy and sad memories that make you who you are get buried in a cluttered room. I personally feel like I'm drowning when surrounded by filth, and having a certain place for all those trinkets in my bedroom allows me to wake up excited for the day ahead.
Aerica F. said...
Feb. 11, 2014 at 3:15 pm
I remember when my room was the messiest in my house.  It was always covered with my cheer bag, dance shoes, and clothes from the previous day and week.  This is a great writing because I can totally be referred to this article.  My whole life is like yours.  I can never stay organized no matter what the day is.  Whether it is a clean floor, or a messy locker, I can’t stay organized to save me life.  It is sometimes difficult though when I don’t know whe... (more »)
CelebrateDifferences said...
Feb. 8, 2014 at 6:00 pm
The qoute "You never know what you have until... you clean your room" is the embody of this memoir. 
Sunshine said...
Nov. 23, 2013 at 11:01 pm
I could connect!
terea armenta said...
Oct. 28, 2013 at 3:13 pm
this is awosome
Senny523 said...
Oct. 9, 2013 at 1:48 pm
Wow! That was awesome
Samantha said...
Oct. 9, 2013 at 1:47 pm
Wow, is that how dirty your room was?
Bobbed said...
Oct. 8, 2013 at 1:53 pm
I liked it was the best one that they had up today.
Juuulia said...
Oct. 7, 2013 at 4:30 pm
Wow! This is great! It's sort of like Shel Silverstein's Sylvia Stout only a memoir(: But it's still super original
MidnightDreamer said...
Sept. 26, 2013 at 9:50 am
This was so inspiring to me and reminded me so much of myself. I went through an epiphany very similar to this. The way you described everything and the meaning behind it was just beautiful. Very good!
TwanKay said...
Sept. 16, 2013 at 2:16 pm
Your writing inspired me, I'm a poetic person and not a single writing piece would bring tears to my eyes but yours, the way you express your poppy on how he meant so much to you, I felt as if it was me in your shoes, you are indeed a writer with passion.:)
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