oh, and the cats keep fighting
I like routine. I've been zipping along in my rhet book. I've been keeping up decently enough with the house. Even with the plants. There was a rough bit after my grandfather died and my mother moved furniture and appliances in almost every room of the house--it took me over a month to stop going to the wrong spots for the big chair, the armour we keep the tools in, and the microwave. But it settled down.
She's moving things again. She couldn't do his room all at once, understandably, so she got a lot done and stopped for a while. Now she's cleaning up in there more to make it into an office.
The problem is the rest of the house is in a constant state of flux. She's gotta move stuff to make room for stuff so she can reposition stuff. And the kitchen counter makes me want to curl up under my bed. I can't keep things tidy when every horizontal surface is covered with stuff. It's not like I can put that loaf of bread where the bread goes. This is just loose collections of screws and rubber bands and papers that may or may not be important. And I know it all makes sense to my mother, but it's an overwhelming mess to me.
Then there's the bit where my mother will ask for help moving something. But she doesn't know when she's going to be ready to move it. She doesn't like to interrupt me when I'm studying, so she waits until I leave my room to ask for help. And it's not like I can say, "This is when I can help you." If I don't help her right then when she needs it, or if she isn't ready and I tell her to get me when she is instead of waiting right there for her to be ready, she just goes on and moves it herself. And then I feel guilty when she's sitting on the sofa with chest pain. And I shouldn't. Because I'm willing to fucking work with her.
I admit, I don't handle change well. In fact, I rather suck at it. I've been stressed and not eating to the point that I'm going to have to break out the boost again--the state of the kitchen doesn't help. I'm fucking hiding in my room.
And the worst part is that my room isn't safe. I just had to make a spot for a small set of drawers. Yes I wanted them, but this is a terrible time to have to bring them in. When the house gets like this my room is my one safe spot, so no matter how well those drawers fit in their spot, they're still an invasion. And no, I don't give a fuck that they partially block the vent. I live in the fucking office, not an actual bedroom, so that's the only spot I have for them, and I'd rather block the vent than keep my pajamas neatly folded in a pile on the floor.
Anyway, what all this leads up to is that my desk, the piece of furniture I spend most of my waking time at, is going to be moved. This has been in the plans for months, yes. And it's a good move. No more worrying about the nice leather top. I'll have something as rough as I am. But still, it's a change of epic proportions for me. And while I might have known about it (and might have forgot, no doubt selectively), it doesn't really make the actual point of change any easier. It's a fucking upheaval. I also happen to hate the desk-like piece of crap that will replace it. But we don't have money to spend on furniture we don't need.
It's just that I had a routine and it was working really well. Now everything's getting turned on it's head and I feel like I'm going to implode. The fact that my mother's also stressed makes for a crappy scenario. I think I might see if a Xanex will help without making it impossible to read Hugh "Boring" Blair. I forget sometimes that they're not just for full-blown panic attacks.
She's moving things again. She couldn't do his room all at once, understandably, so she got a lot done and stopped for a while. Now she's cleaning up in there more to make it into an office.
The problem is the rest of the house is in a constant state of flux. She's gotta move stuff to make room for stuff so she can reposition stuff. And the kitchen counter makes me want to curl up under my bed. I can't keep things tidy when every horizontal surface is covered with stuff. It's not like I can put that loaf of bread where the bread goes. This is just loose collections of screws and rubber bands and papers that may or may not be important. And I know it all makes sense to my mother, but it's an overwhelming mess to me.
Then there's the bit where my mother will ask for help moving something. But she doesn't know when she's going to be ready to move it. She doesn't like to interrupt me when I'm studying, so she waits until I leave my room to ask for help. And it's not like I can say, "This is when I can help you." If I don't help her right then when she needs it, or if she isn't ready and I tell her to get me when she is instead of waiting right there for her to be ready, she just goes on and moves it herself. And then I feel guilty when she's sitting on the sofa with chest pain. And I shouldn't. Because I'm willing to fucking work with her.
I admit, I don't handle change well. In fact, I rather suck at it. I've been stressed and not eating to the point that I'm going to have to break out the boost again--the state of the kitchen doesn't help. I'm fucking hiding in my room.
And the worst part is that my room isn't safe. I just had to make a spot for a small set of drawers. Yes I wanted them, but this is a terrible time to have to bring them in. When the house gets like this my room is my one safe spot, so no matter how well those drawers fit in their spot, they're still an invasion. And no, I don't give a fuck that they partially block the vent. I live in the fucking office, not an actual bedroom, so that's the only spot I have for them, and I'd rather block the vent than keep my pajamas neatly folded in a pile on the floor.
Anyway, what all this leads up to is that my desk, the piece of furniture I spend most of my waking time at, is going to be moved. This has been in the plans for months, yes. And it's a good move. No more worrying about the nice leather top. I'll have something as rough as I am. But still, it's a change of epic proportions for me. And while I might have known about it (and might have forgot, no doubt selectively), it doesn't really make the actual point of change any easier. It's a fucking upheaval. I also happen to hate the desk-like piece of crap that will replace it. But we don't have money to spend on furniture we don't need.
It's just that I had a routine and it was working really well. Now everything's getting turned on it's head and I feel like I'm going to implode. The fact that my mother's also stressed makes for a crappy scenario. I think I might see if a Xanex will help without making it impossible to read Hugh "Boring" Blair. I forget sometimes that they're not just for full-blown panic attacks.