Most of my life I've known more about what I didn't want than what I did. Maybe that's why I ended up with it anyway, just under different labels. I'm not the stay-at-home wife of an idiot patriarch cleaning up after him and a passel of screaming kids; I'm a disabled retiree with a roommate who doesn't do housework and cats whose litter box effluvia and hairball vomitus are my responsibility. If I don't clean it, it doesn't get cleaned (I knew this coming in, yes). I continue to be correct, however, about it being a situation in which I do not thrive. I shut down. That's what a mental illness is... even when I can see it, write and talk about it, I still find myself unable to do anything about it.
I've signed up for a pottery class. This will be interesting, as it is something I've always wanted to do but haven't due to a certain OCD fastidiousness that keeps me from doing a lot of things like art or cooking that are inherently messy. I dislike clean-up so much I will avoid doing things that require me to clean afterward. It's the same OCD that keeps me motionless regarding housework: it will only have to be done again, I can't do it all nor can I do it all to the standard of perfection in my head, so I am immobilized. But this class is at a studio so presumably there will be provisions for cleaning up and instructions on how to do so properly, though it is listed as BYOB and I have no idea what that means in terms of pottery-ness. (I will call to find out beforehand, rest assured.)
Maybe this will turn out to be my passion. I always hope I will find it, even now.