Seeing as I want to keep this blog as relevant to the project as possible, I have signed up with a certain writing site, under the familiar moniker. In this way, I can give my tangents an arena more fitting, and even more visited. As soon as I can figure the means, I will add a link for you to go visit as you choose.
I thought about it, but decided against it. It just did not seem right, although it would have provided a superficial positive. Right now I have Mom's "collections" spread out on the bed, a couple of TV trays, and half the floor. I realized today that this was not the time to attempt organizing, and thought I would move it out to a different room so I could take a picture of the 'finished' room, then put it all back into the room. That would be wrong, however. So I did not do it. Instead, I decided I will clean up the guest room for keeps, then take the picture. Not sure what I will do with the "collections," but I am sure I will get them some day. Might even be worth more by then.
This is why I don't have a hobby: OCD w/depression.
Now, for decades I have known about the depression component and the way it screws with my existence, and in the last few years I've come to acknowledge the contribution that OCD has provided to making my life pleasant, but explaining 'how it works' to the non-crazy person is not always the easiest, and explaining it to the Mrs. is damn near impossible. Oh, for the joy of being raised on the set of "Make Room For Daddy" in rural white bread America. Not that TV is all that bad. Believe it or not, Ripley, the best explanation for a greater share of my behavior (especially the bad) came out as dialog on a TV show last night. Can't recall precisely which show, probably 'CSI.' They were talking about one of the victims and how she was OCD w/depression, and they proceeded to give one of the best explanations I have heard as to why she behaved the way she did. Even beat out what my last therapist said. Even made sense to the Mrs., who is a very intelligent individual who has often struggled with making sense of me.
That sounds worse than I thought it would.
Anyhoots, the concept that some thought gets mired in the chaotic bog and becomes "The Thought" (hence "The Behavior") is why I have some of the problems in my life that most people don't experience. It also explains why I don't really have a hobby, in the generally acceptable sense. Focusing entirely upon one thing to the neglect of all others is not a good practice, as a rule. Too bad, though. My hobby would probably be a great example of hobby-ness, as I suspect I would spend hours and hours and days and weeks and months...
Hey, wait a minute. How long have I worked on One Room? So much for that theory.
It is nearly time to throw away those reminders of what was and when they needed to be. Naturally, I would not want to keep old calendars, now would I? I'll just bet, however, that somewhere in the clutter is at least one, if not more, calendar from some year past. It was probably kept for some reason, like the pretty pictures or some significant date of importance. Actually, I think I know of one day-planner style calendar sitting somewhere gathering dust that is... 2008 minus 1988...twenty years due for trashing. I think I keep it as some kind of personal punishment. It is that kind of pathology that makes this project such an overwhelming undertaking that the general public will never really understand. Still, I trudge ever forward one room at a time (mostly), hoping that errors of the past will fade away.
Bullshit. There are some things that are so tough for me to throw away that it takes years before I am able to do so. There are some errors of the past that will never fade away, as they are frequently brought back out, shined up, and used to beat people like me over the head.
Thankfully, the Mrs. has kept from tossing me away for years, and in light of that, I make greater effort to remove stuff that I don't REALLY need to have around. Lately I have been going through Mom's stuff, and the remnants of Dad's stuff, and surprising myself with the ease of getting it out of the house. Coming across antiquated things can be fun, and while I'll be dead before I get rid of the early 1900's Apothecary Cabinet, sealed cans of tennis balls from the 1940/50's and old books are far easier to remove. Well, that is if someone buys them.
Reading is fun, writing is funner.
[pause for effect]
Especially when it comes to listing things on eBay. I know that I spoke of this earlier, but I always take such joy when it comes to writing up listings for the clutter I am attempting to sell off. Personally, even if the stuff doesn't sell, I would love it if people would just read the things, and then tell their friends, who would in turn read and tell. Sure it's an ego trip, but who that writes does not pack the ego bags up for a voyage when people are reading, and enjoying, the literary creations that flow from the voices in the head to the keyboard to the universe? Obviously I do, and obviously I have been busy of late, what with the 30+ things I have listed. Go check 'em out!!
One more thing. Time for me to select the next room. I'm thinking 'closet,' but doubt the Mrs. will let me get away with that. Offer suggestions.
Sadly, I live in the town that gained some national attention these past few days, due to the actions of one individual. I put off making any comment on the event, not so much because it has little to do with the project (more peripheral than direct), but because my views may be seen as controversial or heartless. In all honesty, I am not even sure I want to express my views. I have learned, however, that it is best for me to express rather than suppress. Yeah, like that has been a positive thing in that past. Still, for all the crap I've piled upon myself by opening my mouth and speaking my mind, I still manage to feel the slightest positive reward when disclosing my views. Again, some of my opinions are controversial, so prepare thyself.
First, shut up. Or, more bluntly, shut the HELL up. I really don't want to hear or read about what happened at that mall anymore. I suppose a large contribution to this feeling is my tendency toward denial. In this case, however, I think it is less denial and more disgust. It bothers me greatly that the ultimate goal of this individual was achieved, that being the 'fame' he garnered for his action. It occurs to me that making such a spectacle of this tragedy serves more to reinforce the sick notion that any one of us can become 'famous' via a traumatic act than it does to deter any future acts. Need I remind anyone that the goal of terrorism is to strike fear into the minds of society and disrupt the status quo?
Second, nobody will ever know what this person was thinking or why he did what he did. We can speculate for eternity, but I can assure you that NO ONE will ever know. From experience, I can tell you that swimming in the 'whys' are just as bad as treading in the 'woulda, shoulda, coulda' waters. Ultimately you will drown, unless you find the shoreline. What I am really saying is that if anyone truly wants to get close to the mindset of this individual, you better prepare yourself for discovering some real ugliness inside. Not him, but yourself. I worry that saying something like that will make a few feel that I am heartless. I assure you that I am not. The contrary is what makes this event traumatic for me. It is probably some evolved positive empathy that keeps me from being the next news headline or top story, as I can very easily step into this individual's thinking process, but that same empathy can put me into his shoes when I close my eyes, recognizing the same potential for insane action. Make me one heck of a FBI profiler, huh?
Finally, the worst component of this event is not the loss of lives. Granted, I feel such pain for those who were present, for those who were wounded, for the families of those who were killed in such brutal fashion. No, the worst part of this tragedy will be glossed over, briefly mentioned, casually tossed into the mix as the media and society continues its exploration. Failure. In that sad, sick, twisted sort of way, this is about how things failed. Without specifics, I can tell you that similar elements of life gone wrong have played out in my existence. Troubled childhood issues, broken relationships, loss of employment, irrational views that the fault is external rather than internal. Yep, been there, seen that. Failure. Not of the individual as much of the 'system.' For all of our supposed progression as a society, we still can't handle the truth of the mental health system's failure to fight it out with the idiots in control, or the reality that our society does more to perpetuate mental health problems than reduce them. It didn't come as a surprise to me when I was told that the office employing my therapist was closing because it was not making enough money for the hospital administering it. It came as no surprise to hear that the shooter of late had mental health issues that seemed to receive little resolution since his first interaction with the system as a child. Time and money, money and time. A lack of either or both in the mental health realm results in a lack of, well, results. A lack of results, more often than not, ends in pain or tragedy.
So, I rant no further, and I put this out there for the globe to consider, and I move beyond this traumatic event much as I have others in my life. Then I go back to my corner of the universe and do my thing, which mostly means finding more boxes of stuff to empty out, and maybe listing some stuff on eBay.
You only thought I gave up on this whole thing. Truth is, I've been busy. Doing something. Now I have to do something else.
