How I know I'm a "proper" adult

Overwhelm and exhaustion,

First this, then that, then these, then those,

An unceasing list of tasks rendered impossible,

By the cacophony of thoughts ricocheting through my mind.

Pressure, anxiety, fear,

The heavy fist of doom grips my heart, squeezes the air from me,

And I cannot breathe.

Just one job, tick it off, anything, just one task,

Dishes stacked high in the sink,

To-do: fill the dishwasher.

I can do this.

The simplicity of sorting, arranging and organising,

Clearing the surfaces of clutter while my brain does the same,

I’m doing it.

The fist loosens its grip and finally I inhale without a shudder,

Tablet in, setting chosen, door closed,

A hum as the machine awakens that warms me like a purr,

My back against the door, the vibrations radiating through me,

Soothing me,

Comforting me,

Relaxing me.

A ridiculous notion not so long ago,

When did I become such an adult?

But it is not about the domesticity, the chore itself,

It is not the dishwasher that comforts.

It is the sound of achievement,

It is the feeling of not letting anxiety win,

It is the knowledge of one thing crossed off the list,

For a moment I close my eyes,

I am calm.