A Girl, a Blanket, and the Ghost of Control

An essay about emotional survival, duvet symmetry, and trying not to scream in ASDA.

Some mornings I make my bed like it’s an act of spiritual defiance. Like if I fold this sheet just right, the world will stop spinning violently on its axis and I’ll suddenly remember how to answer my emails. I smooth the creases, fluff the pillow, straighten the throw, and pretend for one moment that I am someone who has control over her circumstances. I do not. I’ve cried four times this week, and my fridge is empty except for coconut milk and rage. But that bed? That bed looks like it’s got its life together.

It’s not just aesthetics. It’s my anchor. Because everything else feels like quicksand. The government is a joke with teeth. The cost of living is a threat. My cervix is still under debate. People are dying and the news just shrugs. My body hasn’t felt regulated since 2011 and my soul checks out every time someone says “resilience” like it’s a compliment.

I once sat in a conversation where someone said “mental health is overdone” and I swear to God, I left my own body. I just floated upward like a depressed balloon and watched them say it with their whole chest, like they hadn’t been slowly brainwashed into emotional constipation. It’s terrifying how many people think numbness is maturity. That feeling nothing is the goal. That functioning under a broken system means you’re doing something right. You’re not healed. You’re just desensitised. That’s not strength. That’s a spiritual injury no one’s bothering to bandage.

We are being eaten alive. Capitalism doesn’t even pretend to hide it anymore. It feeds on our exhaustion. It rewards our burnout. It makes self-worth feel like a subscription service you can’t cancel. So what do we do? We fold socks. We rearrange mugs. We scroll until our eyes blur and pretend that learning six productivity hacks from someone on TikTok will quiet the existential rot. I have stared at a pile of receipts and cried. I have cleaned my bathroom at 11pm like it would save me. I once decluttered my entire wardrobe while having an emotional breakdown because it felt easier than admitting I was lonely. This is what we do. We tidy the wreckage while pretending the house isn’t on fire.

And so, because I am me, and the world is the world, I’ve developed rituals. Petty, chaotic, sometimes deranged little rituals to claw back a sense of control. They don’t solve anything. But they let me feel like I still exist. Like I can still choose something. Like I can still make a decision that has a result. So here they are, the things I do to feel in control when absolutely nothing is OK:

• Make the bed so aggressively neat it could pass a military inspection

• Sort my wardrobe by emotional phase

• Rewrite my to-do list in nicer handwriting so I can pretend it’s a suggestion, not a threat

• Rewash towels because I didn’t fold them with enough inner peace the first time

• Wipe down my kitchen counters while listening to political podcasts and screaming internally

• Cry in the shower, dry off, then rearrange my skincare by how much they’ve let me down

• Eat toast over the sink and call it a “moment of grounding”

• Turn my phone off, stare at the wall, and call it meditation

• Dust the top of the doors like that’s going to stop climate collapse

• Match my socks like they’re tiny acts of rebellion

• Light a candle with too much meaning and then blow it out because I panicked

And no, none of it fixes anything. The world is still on fire. The systems are still broken. I still don’t know how to file a tax return without needing medical attention. But for five minutes, my bed is made. My feet are warm. The spoons are in the right slot. And that’s enough to get me to the next hour. This is about choosing gentleness in a system that profits from your numbness. This is about reclaiming the tiniest space you have left. One square metre. One rectangle of softness. One quiet, stupid, hopeful, desperate act of love. Fold the sheet. Flatten the pillow. Keep going.

The world is not safe, but your bed is made. And that counts for something.