More Stuff

And here I am, at the coffee shop once again.

I might as well have used a wheelbarrow to haul all my crap inside:  Art journal, sketch journal, planner, writing journal, menu planner, budget planner (that one makes even me giggle out loud), laptop, 28 fountain pens with various inks, a dozen or so rolls of washi tape, all the stickers my younger self could ever have possibly desired, some stampers, ink pads, watercolor kit, and water brush.  I nearly grabbed my carving tools, and decided to show some restraint...ha.  One may think I have decided to just live here.  And I kinda wish I could.

It's an escape here at my little table by the window.  No one cares if I do indeed have clean hair today, but yesterday's eye makeup on, and I find I can hide really well under one of my many hats.  I throw on some jeans and just run away from it all.  In my Hunter boots.  Of which I have twenty-six pair, because I am one)stupid and two)a hoarder...might as well get some use out of them.  The only things I could manage to do successfully right after Cory died, and  off and on since, are buying things and putting outfits together.  And I did them as if they were my life's work.  Now I have so much stuff, I can't even turn around.  It hurts my brain.  Declutter would be the obvious solution, especially since I've gained at least ten pounds since 2012 so half the shit doesn't even fit anymore- but tell that to someone who is severely depressed and she will just stare back at you blankly.  Do what? Yeah, I'll get to that.   I have dreams about swimming through my hallways in a hazmat suit right before they condemn my house for containing too many pairs of shoes, walkways made impassable.

I'll get on a self-care kick and decide to wear makeup again, buy like 12 lip glosses, and a week later, they're buried in a purse I hardly ever carry because I don't have the energy to change it out.  I used to be one of those crazy broads who switched their purse out every night before work to match their outfit.  I miss that girl sometimes, so I'll buy the purses, but they hang on their hooks, and I carry a Vera Bradley around till the handles look worn.  What the hell?

Yes, I am aware that I sound whiny and lazy.

Depression is harder to fight than you might think.  You can't just snap out of it.  And if nothing else, my anxiety is going to give me back problems.  Today, as I straggled through the cold rainy Sunday morning, with my tote bag, handbag, computer, and books, I felt every bit like that fifth grader that carried fourteen binders in 3 bags to school every day.  Come to think of it, why did no one think that was strange?  I probably should've been put on meds years ago.

The more anxious I am, the more I carry because anxiety seems to be the constant fear of not having enough of something.  Carry it all, and your chances of being disappointed go down?  I look at the people in my life who don't have anxiety and they are light travelers.  My friend, Angie, sports around town with a purse the size of the ones I used to buy Cory for Easter when she was a little girl.  What does she have in there?  A debit card and some dental floss.  Her worries scale down to being able to buy food and maintain good gum health.  Wow.  To be that girl.  I can't even imagine.

She looks equally flabbergasted at some of the crap I pull out of my purse on a daily basis.  I might bring every pen I own on one day and the next show up with the pink plastic baby they gave me at the Crisis Pregnancy Center when I was trying to decide what to do.  Stuffed animals.  Serapes.  There's really no telling.

You see that I acknowledge the oddness of my behavior, but I can't seem to do a damn thing about it.  I'm off the sauce for a minute and just as quickly I'm hunched over a pile of something, muttering to myself that it would be better to have one of every color.  Safer, really.

The outcome is feeling very out of control when what you thought you were doing was a good thing...gathering for the next disaster, because if your child can die while you're making dinner, anything can happen and you must be prepared.

It's comical that I'm supposed to speak at one of the colleges again soon about mindfulness.  Yeah, I have my art, but dude, I am no one to advise, I'm a fricking mess.