Digging Out

My most of my adult life, I've had a messy bedroom. That shouldn't even be a thing. When you start nagging someone else to clean their room, yours should be under control. And, for short periods of time, maybe mine was, here and there.

But, for the most part, it was just full. Full of all the stuff that didn't seem to go anywhere else. In may ways, I've spent the last decade or so sleeping in my storage room. I mean, I need those other rooms. Right?

And then, when I started fighting the depression, it got worse. I go through weeks at a time when I can keep the house clean - sanitary, healthy, safe for humans and felines alike, but not really neat. Times when the toys just get kicked to one side of the room and the clean laundry piles up and up without ever being put away. Then, when it needs to be presentable, I just dump it all in my room. Because I need those other rooms, ya know?

Oh crap, oh crap. Normal people do not admit what I am about to admit over the Internet. Just shut up, hit delete and write something else, Jessi. No, really. What the crap are you doing?

So, this weekend, fueled by a desire to rearrange my bedroom furniture, desperation and rain keeping me from painting my front porch columns, I turned on Netflix, put on my housework pants and got down to business.

And it was appalling. There were clothes I forgot I owned. There were books, oh heavens the books. I own so many books. And the kids - holy pants, if the kids would quit leaving toys, books, games, clothes, shoes and quite curiously, homework; in my room, it might not be so bad. Seriously.

And then the craft supplies. Yarn. Fabric scraps. Broken crap I think I can make other crap out of. Yarn. Mismatched buttons. Paint. Yarn. Needles. Little plastic canvas circles I don't even remember purchasing. Yarn.

I carried out five bags of garbage. Five bags of clothing tags, hangers, shopping bags, homework, broken crap that I probably couldn't have made that thing out of anyway. Five bags. There should be a law.

And the kicker is that I'm not really done. I'm mostly done. I've got everything organized, just not put away. For one thing, I don't have enough laundry baskets to carry all the laundry to the basement. I'm pretty sure that means I have too many clothes. I'll get on that. Just as soon as I figure out what they all are, because I almost never have anything to wear to work.

I've got a bag of maternity clothes ready to take to my cousin. That's right. Maternity clothes. My "baby" is four. Seriously, ya'll. These clothes were in my closet. I've got a box of magazines I haven't read. No more magazines, Jessi.

And the craft supplies. Wow. Do I have craft supplies. And wrapping paper. I should own stock in wrapping paper. I'm hoping to have the furniture rearranged by the end of the week. Maybe that'll help.

But the end all answer here is that my room (and hence the post) is a metaphor for the way I've been living. I have this tendency to work really hard at making things nice for everyone else and dumping all the crap in my own lap. I take on all the responsibility, never say no and volunteer for things I don't really want to do. I try really hard to take care of everyone else and ignore myself.

In real life, I do what I do until my body can't handle it anymore and I get sick. This happens about once every three months. Noticing the pattern hasn't helped me break it.

Well, metaphorical me is sick. Sick of the mess, sick of the lack of organization, the lack of clean laundry and of feeling like I'm sleeping in a storage room. I'm not sure what the answer is, but it stops here. Things without a home may no longer find one in my room.

I'm taking care of me.

I hope.