Maybe this isn’t a breakdown at all; maybe this is an awakening from the breakdown I had six years ago, a return to a self I was too cowardly to explore (or is it too late?). Or maybe instead of retreating into a false state of dull adulthood, this time I’m retreating into a lost state of infantilism. Well regardless of motive, this feels far more natural, more personal than my prior escapist effort. What it means and whether or not it sticks is completely inconsequential.
I dislike my apartment. I purchased all its furnishings during a period in time when I was least acting like myself. Much later, post-change, a friend even remarked that I wasn’t even dressing like myself and that my appearance had become dull and formalized. (In fact I was completely hysterical at the time and doing my best to suppress a breakdown by repressing my own persona… such lovely solutions I come up with!) So as an act of self-rebellion and rejuvenation I’ve been slowly and creatively trashing the place. I always kept my place so clean, not just out of my natural compulsion, but mainly because I’m so secretive. I couldn’t leave stuff just laying around because I didn’t want people snooping at what I was writing or what I was reading. I always made an effort to clean up after myself because I didn’t like people coming over and being able to piece together what I was doing during the day before they arrived. It’s actually quite silly because most of the time my habits are innocuous. I could be doing something as simple as watching a DVD, but I wouldn’t want someone seeing that I had or knowing what I'd watched just by observation; I would want it to be my choice as to whether or not I felt like telling them, and even then I’m highly whimsical about which things I choose to share, especially when it comes to the most mundane of details.
It would probably be rare or at least uncharacteristic for any guest to be snoopish enough to be reading something I had left out, but my paranoia does not require reason. And in reality, it’s not like I had people over that often, but really just one person. [Disclaimer: There wasn’t really a need to be secretive. Things that were intentionally hidden were not really things that needed to be known. There wasn’t even the least bit of suspicion of nosiness, and actually to some dismay the case was quite contrary. My habits were/are secretive purely for the sake of being secretive.] But since I live alone and don’t really have guests over anymore, I find myself oddly letting loose.
I no longer have to clean my bed off every weekend, so it’s become completely littered with books and clothes. I have scraps of papered notes piled up on every table surface, lists all over the place, sorted stacks of DVDs sprawled about the floor, and other disorder and unfinished projects laying in wait. Since I have huge lists of vocabulary words I’m trying to memorize, but never seem to pick up, I’ve decided instead to use tiny Post-it notes and am slowing covering the wall along my bed with vocabulary words (definitions on the back). Now whenever I feel sick of reading or writing in bed I can lay there and relax by scanning my word wall and seeing how many I can add to memory. I hope to cover the entire wall, constantly adding new words and taking some down when I feel I have them memorized long-term. I also have a pile of clothes I’m meaning to give away, stacked-up like an ever-increasing bonfire in the middle of my bedroom. (I tend to wear the same ten or so things over and over so I see no point in having as much, unworn, as I do.) I thought about just throwing away as much as I could of everything, living as austerely as possible, but that seems a bit hasty. I’ve kept a lot of out nostalgia that I no longer think are worth keeping, e.g., I pretty much still have everything I’ve written since I was eleven. I’ve been tempted to throw it all out as a means of purging myself of past selves but since such things take up so little physical space, I have a hard time justifying letting them go. But slowly I am trying to junk a lot of nonessentials one by one, replacing them in lesser quantity with things more inspiring and less wallowing.
Yes, of course I’m not a messy person, and so what I consider chaotic is still quite organized by most people’s standards. Besides, it’s not really a matter of uncontrolled clutter so much as building up a sanctuary instead of the present prison. Perhaps that’s a bit hyperbolic but its induced mentality can make all the difference.
I dislike my apartment. I purchased all its furnishings during a period in time when I was least acting like myself. Much later, post-change, a friend even remarked that I wasn’t even dressing like myself and that my appearance had become dull and formalized. (In fact I was completely hysterical at the time and doing my best to suppress a breakdown by repressing my own persona… such lovely solutions I come up with!) So as an act of self-rebellion and rejuvenation I’ve been slowly and creatively trashing the place. I always kept my place so clean, not just out of my natural compulsion, but mainly because I’m so secretive. I couldn’t leave stuff just laying around because I didn’t want people snooping at what I was writing or what I was reading. I always made an effort to clean up after myself because I didn’t like people coming over and being able to piece together what I was doing during the day before they arrived. It’s actually quite silly because most of the time my habits are innocuous. I could be doing something as simple as watching a DVD, but I wouldn’t want someone seeing that I had or knowing what I'd watched just by observation; I would want it to be my choice as to whether or not I felt like telling them, and even then I’m highly whimsical about which things I choose to share, especially when it comes to the most mundane of details.
It would probably be rare or at least uncharacteristic for any guest to be snoopish enough to be reading something I had left out, but my paranoia does not require reason. And in reality, it’s not like I had people over that often, but really just one person. [Disclaimer: There wasn’t really a need to be secretive. Things that were intentionally hidden were not really things that needed to be known. There wasn’t even the least bit of suspicion of nosiness, and actually to some dismay the case was quite contrary. My habits were/are secretive purely for the sake of being secretive.] But since I live alone and don’t really have guests over anymore, I find myself oddly letting loose.
I no longer have to clean my bed off every weekend, so it’s become completely littered with books and clothes. I have scraps of papered notes piled up on every table surface, lists all over the place, sorted stacks of DVDs sprawled about the floor, and other disorder and unfinished projects laying in wait. Since I have huge lists of vocabulary words I’m trying to memorize, but never seem to pick up, I’ve decided instead to use tiny Post-it notes and am slowing covering the wall along my bed with vocabulary words (definitions on the back). Now whenever I feel sick of reading or writing in bed I can lay there and relax by scanning my word wall and seeing how many I can add to memory. I hope to cover the entire wall, constantly adding new words and taking some down when I feel I have them memorized long-term. I also have a pile of clothes I’m meaning to give away, stacked-up like an ever-increasing bonfire in the middle of my bedroom. (I tend to wear the same ten or so things over and over so I see no point in having as much, unworn, as I do.) I thought about just throwing away as much as I could of everything, living as austerely as possible, but that seems a bit hasty. I’ve kept a lot of out nostalgia that I no longer think are worth keeping, e.g., I pretty much still have everything I’ve written since I was eleven. I’ve been tempted to throw it all out as a means of purging myself of past selves but since such things take up so little physical space, I have a hard time justifying letting them go. But slowly I am trying to junk a lot of nonessentials one by one, replacing them in lesser quantity with things more inspiring and less wallowing.
Yes, of course I’m not a messy person, and so what I consider chaotic is still quite organized by most people’s standards. Besides, it’s not really a matter of uncontrolled clutter so much as building up a sanctuary instead of the present prison. Perhaps that’s a bit hyperbolic but its induced mentality can make all the difference.
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