Spring Cleaning

I cleaned out my Monica Gellar closet (if you don't know this reference, we can't be friends) and realized it was a metaphor for my mental illness. It was like the Pandora's box I haven't wanted to open for years, and yet, I knew it was time. I needed to do some cleaning, both figuratively and literally. 

This is my closet now. 

                                      

Kind of pretty, isn't it? It looks organized, I have a nice little work space. Things are in specific places, and I even have a spot for my taxidermied animal thingy. 

I'm showing the "after picture" first because, frankly, it will look better in the preview picture in the link.

However, this is the before. It's bad, huh? 

The closet had been a dumping ground for randomness since the day we moved in over a year ago.  took four or five huge lawn and leaf bags of trash and four lawn and leaf bags to charity, twelve hours, and me falling down a massive rabbit hole. 

You see, as I was purging, I realized that I hadn't touched some of that stuff since we lived in Tennessee- in 2012. That's three moves, an autism diagnosis (mine), a slight mental breakdown (again, me), another severe endometriosis diagnosis for me, and so much more. 

As I was digging deep into crafting supplies, I kept wondering "why?" Why in the ever living shit did I have some of this?! I mean, at one point I was selling hair bows and accessories, so some of it made sense, but Jesus, why did I need five rolls of ribbon that were the exact same color? What the hell was going on with me when I was buying this stuff? And why was some of it so ugly?

Then, I remembered. And I got mad. I remembered Thomas and I fighting like all hell five years ago about my spending money on this shit and my denying it. The craft store was better than eating because I was steeped in anorexia and mania and I was out of control, all while trying so hard to pretend I was in control. It was when I was battling the school on IEPs, and Morgan's placement, and so much more. This was the time frame I became and advocate. 

Before that time, I broke off contact with my biological father. I fired my shrink. I fired everyone. I went off my meds. I went full blown wide open. I lost my proverbial shit. All of that was in the closet, too, in pictures, journals, and drawings I'd hidden away from myself. 

Mental illness- it had filled up bins, boxes, baskets, and bought hundreds of rolls of ribbons, and I'm not even sure how many fat quarters of fabric. I had hoarded and, scared to death of losing more things and I was losing control, I kept it all. 

I threw out guilt as I threw out cards, papers, bags, notebooks filled with manic scrawling. Rage and sadness filled me because I wondered how much time I've wasted over the years due to this crap in my head. 

By the time I was done, I felt as if I'd taken a long and hot shower.  It was as if by unleashing my compulsiveness in a healthy way, I'd been able to clean out the recesses of my brain.

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