Routine meant everything to her; dependable, reliable, its structure afforded her a modicum of stability.
Routine provided the illusion of control—which she clearly understood was mere illusion; nonetheless, comforting.
She vigorously denied even a minor degree of OCD; it was simply more sensible to live an orderly life—rather than a haphazard, reckless, adventuresome existence which risked certain calamity.
Pared down smaller than most people’s, perhaps cloistered, her life was manageable (and for the most part, richer than anyone knew) behind the tall invisible walls of privacy and routine.
She shopped for groceries and paid bills at first of month, did her laundry near the end; garbage and recycling were put out on designated days; her quiet activities maintained a satisfying rhythm.
On the final day, her clothes and dishes were all washed and tidied, her few rooms neat; no food was left to rot, the houseplants were watered…and when eventually discovered, her corpse in the closet was described as a “routine” suicide.
©Rhen Laird/Cobbled Contemplations, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.