Trying to Calm the Chaos

By the time Mama got home that evening, I could already feel that familiar tightness building in my chest that buzzing, restless pressure that always showed up when the day had been too long and too loud. It started small, like a little hum under my ribs, but it never stayed small. Not with everything I had to carry. Not with the way my mind worked.

For me, ADHD didn’t look like what folks thought. I wasn’t bouncing off walls or talking a mile a minute. I wasn’t the kid teachers complained about for being “too much.” Mine was the quiet kind. the kind that made my thoughts slip through my fingers like water, the kind that made me forget things even when I tried my hardest, the kind that made my brain freeze when life got overwhelming. And when that freeze hit, it came with anxiety that wrapped around me like a tight blanket I couldn’t kick off.

And when that happened, I cleaned.

Not regular cleaning. Not “wipe the counters” cleaning. No, deep cleaning. Rearranging‑the‑whole‑room cleaning. Pull‑everything‑out‑the‑closet cleaning. Move‑the‑furniture‑just‑to‑move‑it cleaning.

It was the only thing that made the noise in my head quiet down. The only thing that made me feel like I had control over something, even if it was just where my shoes lined up on the floor.

I didn’t even realize I’d started until I heard Sariya’s voice echo down the hallway, loud enough to shake the walls.

“Mama! Lyric takin’ out all her clothes from the closet again!”

I closed my eyes. Here we go.

“What?” Mama called from her room, already sounding annoyed. “Lyric, you cleanin’?”

I stood there with a pile of shirts in my arms, the closet halfway emptied, my bed pushed crooked across the floor. Explaining why I was doing this, explaining the tightness in my chest, the racing thoughts, the way everything felt like too much. It just wasn’t worth it. Mama didn’t believe in ADHD. She didn’t believe in anxiety. She barely believed in being tired.

“I’m just goin’ through my closet, Mama,” I said, keeping my voice calm.

It was easier than telling her the truth. Easier than trying to explain something she didn’t have the language for. Mama was strict and old school. Mental health in a Black household wasn’t a thing.

You depressed? Go wash them dishes. You got an attitude? I’ll slap the Black off you. You hearing voices? Come here so I can pray over you.

I’d heard all that growing up. After a while, I learned to keep quiet. Learned to carry things alone. Learned that some feelings weren’t safe to share.

“Well, if you cleanin’, when you done come take care of that garage,” Mama said. “I need you to move that mess your damn uncle left out on the curb. And Miracle, since you runnin’ your mouth ’bout what your sister doin’, you and Sariya get in that damn room and pick up all them toys before I throw ’em out.”

I heard Miracle complain, but I knew she’d do it. Mama had the day off after working nonstop, which meant she wasn’t planning on doing anything. She didn’t mind my cleaning as long as I didn’t touch her stuff.

I looked around my room. Clothes scattered everywhere, shoes lined up like I was preparing for inspection, drawers pulled out, the whole space flipped upside down. My heart was beating fast, but my hands were steady. This was my spiral. This was my coping. This was the only way I knew to keep myself from falling apart.