When I Started Washing My Skin to Save My Soul

When I Started Washing My Skin to Save My Soul

There are mornings when the bathroom window catches the first weak light like it's afraid to let it in, and I press my palm against the glass where last night's steam has written its confession—tiny water commas, mineral ghosts, the faint soap breath that lingers like regret you can't rinse away. The room smells like a secret nobody asked for. I stand there barefoot on cold tile, staring at the shower stall that's become my mirror: smeared, dulled, holding every shower's worth of failure I've let build up because facing it felt like admitting I was breaking faster than I could fix.

Cleanliness stopped being about scrubbing a long time ago. It's rhythm now—hands that come back before the water turns to accusations, air that moves before the dampness starts whispering you're not worth the effort. I learned this the night I sat on the bathroom floor, knees to chest, listening to water drip like a countdown I couldn't stop. The stall wasn't dirty. It was tired. Like me. Holding onto every mineral scar, every soap film, every corner where mildew took root because I was too hollowed out to notice. Moisture is the real thief—it turns a room into a greenhouse for things that thrive where you wither. I started opening the window wider, running the fan until the mirror forgot my face, not because I wanted clarity but because I needed one place that wouldn't suffocate me.

I gutted the stall first. Threw out the half-dead razor, the loofah that never dried, the shampoo bottles preaching promises I didn't believe anymore. One bar of soap. One squeegee hanging where my blind hand could find it. Less clutter meant less to drown in, less to pretend I could handle when my arms felt like lead. Right after the water dies, I rinse the walls—quick, like shooing away evidence—and squeegee top to bottom, one stroke per pane, cloth for the clinging edges. It's the length of breathing through a panic attack. Some nights I mist cleaner like a prayer I half-believe in, not magic, just consistency in a bottle that buys me time before the build-up turns vicious.

Once a week I go deeper, but never with the rage of someone losing a war. Clear the space, wet the surfaces, soap before bleach because films hide what killers need to reach. I let it sit until it means something, scrub with a brush that doesn't mock my spine, gloves on, fan roaring, reading labels like they're the only truth left. Rinse until the water runs innocent again. Glass demands less time wet than anything else—squeegee daily, wipe frames where drops betray you, mild cleaner for the haze that survives because scratches are where tomorrow's fog lives forever. Grout shows the scars first, shadows where dampness naps too long. I brush it gentle, oxygen bleach for the stains that remember too much. Caulk that pulls away gets cut clean—no postponing conversations with decay. Fresh bead, steady hand. Little fixes are what keep the collapse from writing itself.

I don't mix cleaners because I've heard sirens quieter than regret. Store them labeled, capped, out of reach—not for safety manuals, for the bone-deep knowledge that one mistake turns sanctuary to trap. Mold speaks when you let moisture monologue; I starve it with air, dry corners, timeliness. Germs ride in on feet we share unknowingly, thriving where skin softens and stays wet, but rhythm guards better than bleach—clean routines, no shared towels, feet that refuse damp corners. Perfection would choke me. Sanity lets the room stay honest.

By the second month, the stall started answering back with light. Glass that sees through instead of collecting ghosts. Drain that breathes. Mirror that forgives steam faster. I close the window last, leave the fan humming like a lullaby I finally trust. It's not a showroom. It's the one place that helps me return to myself when everything else demands I perform. For the cost of hands that show up, air that moves, one squeegee—I get mornings without accusation. The math is breath. The rest is ritual.