Turns out the run the other night was just the beginning, the preview of exorcisms to come.
Last night, it was the basket liner--the one that always slips down all cock-eyed every time I throw something small in, trapping necklaces and hair ties so no one can find them. I'd finally had it. I tossed a cat toy in and down it went, behind the liner, and I couldn't untie the little knots that secured it to the basket for the life of me. So I did what any self-respecting person would do. I lost it. I took the basket and dumped it upside down in a crazed upheaval that sent toys crashing to the wood floor - some I hadn't seen in years--and I ripped that #@$*!@& basket liner out and threw it away like it was the first step toward a more peaceful future. And it was.
Aw, hell done just broke loose. I weeded out toys. I dusted the coffee table. I assured a pile of clothes that Goodwill was a great place to live, and when I filled two garbage bags full of things I didn't need or want, I sat on my kitchen counter and convinced my mom to listen to one of my once-every-three-month really deep life conversations. And though this all may seem unnecessarily dramatic, I've realized this reaction is part of who I am. No matter how many personality quizzes I've taken--even if I try and alter the outcome by Christmas-treeing my way through questions, it is inevitable my diagnosis says "Hey, you're impulsive! Hey, you're emotional!" If emotions were an English breakfast tea, let's just say I let my tea steep so long and so strong until just a sip of it demands action: spit it out, throw it out, make new tea, talk about the tea, write a tea thesis. Get a degree in tea studies, start a tea company and change the tea world. I've long tried to balance things better--slower, more thoughtful, more analyzed but, at the same time, concentrated emotion propels me into action in some sort of revolutionary way. I can honestly say I know myself well enough to believe the shock and heightened emotion of moments I'm not expecting are important for me. Deprogramming, in a way. A distinct slate-cleansing beginning.
I'm all about clean slate beginnings. The important issue, regardless of whether we attend to every quiet emotion the second it arises or wait until things are a great big ball of "you better fix this shiz," is that we attend to emotions at all. Listen to them, learn from them.
There is no life-altering crisis here. In fact, a mind x-ray would reveal things that might be trite and silly to some, hardly reason for a deep life conversation or going insane on a basket. There are however a lot of little things I can change right now--bad habits, inattentive routines, shift of focus.
For all the times I spent crying on my bed when I was younger because, God forbid, my world was changing a little bit, I've realized somewhere around May, I developed a healty addiction to the very thing I've hated my whole life...change. Change is growth, and without it we are stagnant. Stale. Boring.
Shake it up, baby.
We talked about change last night. About wanting to be better and making deliberate efforts to deposit time and affection into our family. When things get busy, it is so easy to go on twitter and cry that my world is falling apart, eat ordered chinese food, throw towels next to the bathtub, scratch washing my face before bed. But like I've said before, it doesn't feel good after a while. And I want to feel good.
So I wrote a tea thesis. Took change to the tenth power and deprogrammed--or rather reprogrammed--little things around the house that seemed symbolic. Rearranged my posters and decorations, checked some things off of my bucket list, packed up the old clothes and put them away. No "becca please save me I'm dying" today. New accessible book stacks and puzzle piles.
Today was quiet and thoughtful and felt a little bit new. I dug up a pair of shoes I haven't worn in ages. Twisted my hair into braids for something different. Chose an alternate path to my friend's house.
I used to think emotional "funks" would just ride out on their own--grab a board, ride the wave. I find more comfort now though in the truth they hold. Funks aren't the cause of emotions; they are the effect--messages to which we need to listen and respond.
Whether our response is monumental or something as simple as rearranging your room or cleaning out a storage basket, it's the action of responding that is empowering--funk-erasing.
I'm finding such clarity in just the initiation of changed behaviors. I moved a poetry book to my nightstand this morning, added a couple new items to my bucket list today, had an ice cream date with new friends.
And I feel invigorated. Ready to take on the tea world.
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