The smell of bleach has always been one of those things that I have a love/hate relationship with. I absolutely adore the way that the smell means something is ridiculously clean. I hate how overpowering it is, and how much it lingers past any other smell that is around it.

But then you have to think about the nature of bleach, and how it works. It literally makes proteins disassociate. This is no small feat, as the alpha helices and folded chains are some of the most difficult to separate. And yet, they are made to fall apart under the power of bleach.

Lately, I’ve been cleaning with bleach. A couple of weeks ago, I bought a cleaner that was completely bleach based. This isn’t something I normally do. The smell gives me mixed feelings about the idea of clean and destruction. Yet, I scrubbed the house down with it. The sink kept getting dirty, and I kept spraying it down. I used it directly on the bathroom floor instead of mopping. In dusting the shelves, I kept spraying it onto paper towels, and wiping down my environment with this instead of using normal dusting spray.

Last weekend, before I had a small dinner party, the entire house had been wiped down with it.

Yesterday, I walked in to my place, and it no longer smelled like bleach. It smelled like my perfume, my new sachets, and books. It smelled like me. And I was, finally, for the first time in nearly a year, comfortable.

And I realized what I had been doing. Cleaning had become a manifestation of my mental state. I had been trying to break apart a strand I had become caught in. The beta sheets and looped chains I found myself caught in needed to be broken. Bleach had become my way of trying to release myself from the horrific restrictive chains before I could say the words.

But now, looking around, surrounded by the familiar smells of comfort, I start to distinguish. I see the individual building blocks which I am looking forward to stringing back together in a manner that no longer needs to be broken apart. And I smile. And that smile is a happier one than I have had in the past year.

I’ve never felt very connected to my name. I’ve had so many nicknames, that my actual name is something I don’t feel is precious. I actually wait to see how long it takes people to start shortening my first name. Everyone does. Rarely does anyone use my full first name unless I’m in a business meeting, or I’m in trouble. I have close friends that can’t pronounce my last name correctly. I’ll never tell them, because I don’t connect to it in any sort of close way, so I don’t care. The only person I share a last name with that matters is my brother. None of the rest of my family has it.

However, I’m really glad I have an unusual name. Seriously. Both my first and last names are unusual…not so much so that people think I’m the child of a self involved Hollywood star that has no concern for the mockery of their child, but enough so that when people hear or see my name….no matter how long it’s been, they know it’s me.

Case in point. I keep this blog. I recently got a comment from someone I haven’t seen since I was in college. In high school, we were good friends. His house was the first I had ever seen a Mork style egg chair in. He introduced me to a ton of music. We went to the beach…a lot. His was the first family I ever saw have a vacation itinerary written up for travel. I think of it now every time I travel, and make no plans…

He was a couple grades above me, and left for college. We kept in touch, but the last time we saw each other was one day when I was driving with some friends down the Haight in SF, and he was wandering down the street. I was looking out the passenger window, and yelled “STOP!!!”

Jumping out, I ran up to him, and we gave each other huge hugs. Talked for a couple of minutes, but I had to jump back in the car as we were headed to a theater performance.

And we haven’t talked since. Not for any reason except losing touch. Life. You know.

And then, a month ago…he saw my name on a film I did. And looked me up. And apparently found this blog.

My heart warmed. And it was because of my name.

So, I guess I need to learn to connect to my name. Not because of what it has meant, but because of what it means now. There’s a calculator online that will tell you how many people in the world have your name combination. For my first and last name, the answer was 1. In the world, just me. The only one.

So if you want to find me, I guess all you have to do is look. It’s only me out here.

And Mike…I’m so glad you got in touch.