As we speak . . .
Err, let me try that again.
As I type, a disgruntled, mostly mediocre writer hidden in the confines of her room corner accompanied only by the L.E.D blaring of at 28 inch computer screen and the voices in her head, and as you read, I am steadily fighting the urge to buy the most useless crap I can find on Amazon.
I don’t need it.
I don’t need it.
I don’t need it.
I DON’T need it.
But . . .
Wants and needs are practically synonymous, right?
I have these obsessions occasionally. I think I spoke of one regarding pocket and chain watches. They come and go like the moon–so in that sense, they’re always there, I just don’t always see them.
In my teenage years I was obsessed with metal. I wore black every day, I had chains hanging from both sides of my pants, I had wrist bands, chokers, a collection of belts, and the shirts I wore were all band T-shirts. I didn’t like anything unless it was black, silver, or a dark blue. I liked to blend into the shadows.
It died off suddenly, replaced with science.
Now I’ve recently been fascinated with Gothic architecture, antique furniture, colored contact lenses, and Gothic decor.
If you weren’t already aware, and if I have not shared this publicly, I am a miniature hoarder.
I say that because I’m not as active as some hoarders. Some go out to stores and buy the small little trinkets several times a week and surround themselves with those trinkets until they’re buried to their neck in them. Some collect junk off the street. Most see potential use in all of their items.
I do not have the means to buy trinkets everyday because I don’t have money and I am not comfortable outdoors. I lucked out. I think?
I do, however, pick up things from the street. For years I had them hanging on my room door until I had to take them down because they wouldn’t stick anymore. I don’t know where they are in this room anymore. I might have managed to throw them away.
I have cleaned my room a few times in the six years I’ve lived here, all massive cleanings due to family members from out of town coming in or a giant spider scaring me into them having egg sacks hidden around in corners of my room. Usually these cleanings were successful for a day or two, maybe even a week, and then my mind crumbles and I throw things where I can see them, otherwise I lose them.
This most recent cleaning was not near as successful as the others. My anxiety forced me to my knees on the ground, the hot flashes forced me into the hall every few moments and when I returned to the state of my room, the one place in the world where I am confined, alone, and myself as it was stripped down to its very core (meaning, you could actually see my floor), I shut down.
If you spoke to me at that moment, I would only stare. Your words would have been muffled as my mind protected me from myself and the outside world. I was essentially a hollowed shell for a good thirty minutes. If I did respond to you, I would screech or throw something, which are the responses my mother elicited from me. Finally she realized how the panic was affecting me and said we’d done enough for the day. I felt an immediate wave of relief and went back to smiling and laughing a good ten minutes later.
I believe this mess I’ve accrued is partially a result of my scattered mind, of my need to have things accessible and within reach at all time, not tucked away in a drawer or hung up in a closet–what’s the point of all that? I have better things to do than worry about things that don’t matter in the grand scheme of things.
I also believe it is attributed to a specific time in my childhood. When we were evicted those years back, the eviction that made us homeless, we kept what we could in a storage unit but many things we had to take to the dump. There was no ” we might be able to keep this”, it was simply discarded and forgotten and I had no control over it. I can’t remember much, it might have been a time where I was more anxious than I thought I was, but I can remember some trips to the dump, all the furniture we had to break down and throw away, including my bed. Although the furniture was just that, furniture, I didn’t get a lot of things as a child as it was, and now the majority of my stuff was either locked away and inaccessible or broken at the dump forever lost.
I started bringing things home from the dump with me. Toys and such, other things that weren’t damaged and just covered with a little soil, things I could wash off and potentially get some use from. At some point.
There are many things in my life I haven’t had control over, and one thing I can control in my room is how it looks.
Seems contradictory in a sense, seems like if my room is the only thing I can control, I would want it neat and tidy. But that’s not how my brain works.
My brain is not neat and tidy.
My room is clean when I am on top of the world (or when I’m panicking about a spider egg sack). I’ve had moments where nothing mattered to me anymore, I was full of energy and I threw away all the things I didn’t need anymore, hundreds upon hundreds of papers (I’m not exaggerating) and I took every item out of my room–mattresses, dresser, large black television I have no use for anymore, three layer desk of which I’m sitting at right now, exercise bike of which I have no energy or space to actually put to use . . .everything,and got my hands and knees and scrubbed the walls, the corners, vacuumed, danced to music . . .
I started at eight in the morning (after being up all night) and cleaned until 9 p.m.
That was the last deep clean my room had. The last ones have been small efforts until I get distracted and suddenly want to ride my bike to start training to become the next American Ninja Warrior or I get distracted by an article or philosophy or a million things.
I love my brain. But I’ll be damned if it’s not a workout to keep up with it sometimes.