crazy / Home/Family Life

A Symbol of One’s Depression

So the prompt today asks which is messier, my bedroom or my desktop. My desktop is quite often impeccably organized, but it has to be simply because of legalities. If I lose my grade records or certain assignments, and a student challenges me on any of it, I must be able to quickly provide the paper trail. I can do that efficiently because I’ve learned from past errs. I also like being able to see the stages of all of my writing projects I never did anything with. All of it reminds me of what I should’ve been though, providing me nothing more than empty melancholia, so I make sure none of it is where I can blatantly see it.  It merely serves as a regretful reminder of What Could Have Been.

Since the desktop is fine, it must be my bedroom, and, well, yes, it’s a disaster. I’ve no real attachment to things anymore. I’ve never particularly cared for decorating. The numerous bedrooms I’ve had, with the exception of one, were awful spaces, cold and drafty and much too isolated from the hearth of family. While I like vintage-y stuff and mementos here and there, I’ve “decorated” my spaces akin to a teenager with murky colors and textures. All it’s missing are my framed vintage movie posters I’ve not cared about hanging up. My nephews would find all of this appropriate since that’s how they see me — a 41 year old who refuses to grow up. What my nephews don’t realize is that my cluttered room isn’t a space I enjoy anyway. It never has been. I like sleeping and doing bits of classwork in it, but it isn’t comfortable. I’d initially wanted it to be, but then I lost interest. It doesn’t take long.

There’s a closet overstuffed with clothes, most of which I can’t wear anymore. Near it is a laundry basket that represents just how little I care anymore. One is supposed to actually USE a laundry basket to carry LAUNDRY. I don’t use it that way at all. Now it’s just filled with a mountain of clothing I keep promising myself to sort through, bag, and donate, and that never happens.

The curtains are incredibly ugly and in need of a good wash…if I cared. My grandmother made them out of some dreadful patterned sheets, all in muddy greens and dusky roses. I once had my eye on some lovely Ikea panel curtains because I once pictured the whole house in bright, pretty colors — colors that would’ve once made my grandmother happy. Now, I don’t care. I just can’t find it in my heart to care about things, stuff, appearances.

My grandmother’s bed, vanity and dresser are still in the room because I’ve loved them. I don’t dust them enough though. The vanity is the most cluttered of all. I’d wanted once to keep it girlish with perfume atomizers and jewelry boxes. Having been robbed once though, everything’s scattered and hidden. Now I’ve cheap perfume bottles, pill bottles, receipts, coupons, bills, and bits and bobs all over the vanity top.

There’s a wooden, folding bookshelf from Target that holds so many books, it’s seriously saggy. Beside it are sheets I didn’t bother ironing and putting away, a little towel rack with a pile of old beach towels, a portable heater for those rare below-60 days that come once a year. Squeezed in between the wall and the dresser are two small suitcases I like to have handy in case of an emergency.

There are bags and scrunchy work flats scattered about the floor. I like purses and have amassed a small collection. They’re hanging up, smooshed together to form two bumpy masses of leather, pleather, wicker, tapestry, linen, sequins, and metal.

Beside my bed, which is reasonably comfy and just right for one, there’s a wooden nightstand in need of a good clean as it’s speckled in white stains from water drips. I’ve bottles and plastic peel-packets of sleeping “remedies” all over it, signs of poor medical care, evident health problems, and a mind that cannot shut off at night anymore. There’s a sleep mask that   I rarely use, a book of some sort I try to concentrate on, a cheap travel clock, and an old lamp I found in another room.

None of this is me as I want to be, with dreams and aspirations, pride and prettiness. It’s just how I am now. That said, however, there is a single bit of real color in the room, a painting, and it hangs on the wall beside my bed. It was given to me for my birthday from my mom several years ago. It serves as a reminder of the road trip out West she and I had taken back in 2011.

It also reminds me of the few things I still manage to enjoy: love, company, and adventure.


3 thoughts on “A Symbol of One’s Depression

  1. Pingback: Mess is Where the Books Are | Zezee with Books

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