When Your Life’s a Mess

I’m probably revealing too much here, but if I were given the choice of a handful of words to describe my life, one of them would undoubtedly be, mess.

Throughout all its definitions, mess is definitely applicable.

Thankfully, in more of a ‘Bless this Mess’ way than, “She’s going to need to hire a really good lawyer,” but mess nonetheless.

Let’s start with what the mess you can see:

As many people do, I began to accumulate things at a relatively young age. Gifts, purchases, items people gave me because they no longer wanted them; I welcomed all with opened arms. Open arms became closets, cupboards, drawers. Bursting to accommodate it all. Since I like a tidy space, I hid a lot of things where they wouldn’t be seen.

“My physical space represents my mental space,” I’m fond of saying, “If it’s cluttered and out of control, my mind feels the same way.”

And, it was a pretty apt comparison. Because my mind, too, contained areas where I shoved shit I didn’t want to deal with. It sometimes took quite an amount of effort to keep it all contained. Layers upon layers of unexamined or unprocessed thoughts and experiences.

There she goes, dating THAT guy again, my friends were probably thinking from, oh, 2008 to 2018.

I spent years accumulating all these messes. Thoughts of sorting through it all were overwhelming. Some of the stuff and some of the beliefs I was so used to, they almost became an extension of myself. I didn’t even think I could discard or make sense of them, because they were too tangled up in my identity. Thus, I repeated the same mistakes. I didn’t want to hurt anyone by discarding or donating, didn’t want to make things uncomfortable. So, I did nothing, and kept it (and sometimes him) around.

The only area where I practiced any sort of minimalism was my bank account.

I think, because I had stuff, was surrounded by it like a rat in its nest – busying myself by fussing over it – I didn’t immediately feel a sense of lack. Didn’t realize I was wasting my time, dilly-dallying over things that didn’t really matter or contain much value.

There’s a funny thing that happens when you confront your mess. At least in my recent experience, anyway. I started to ask why.

Why do I have this?

Is this a “fantasy self” item, or will I actually wear it/use it?

Why did I put up with that?

What does that say about the way I feel about myself?

Who am I?

Funny; as someone who never had a problem toying with, “why are we here? What is the meaning of life?” I never thought to zoom in, look at myself and my experience in a similar context, in any sort of confrontational way at least.

However, as I whittled away the excess, who I am and what I want started to become clearer. Simplicity is ok; I don’t have to make everyone happy. I don’t have to stop doing the things I love, I don’t even have to try and impress anyone with the things I love; hoping they’ll like me more because I wrote a catchy song, tell me “good job,” to make me feel as though I’m worth the air I breathe…

I was hiding within the mess. Physically, amongst all the things, and mentally by burying the parts of myself I deemed unlovable or unworthy.

I think I’d still consider my life somewhat of a mess, but more in the (yes, overused) way a potter creates something new out of a chunk of clay. The beauty of mess is that if you’re brave enough and don’t mind getting your hands dirty, there’s so much to discover and create. So much raw material!

If you ignore it and don’t address it, it just bogs you down.

You’ll be on edge: “Don’t open that!” you’ll say, in a desperate shrill voice, as a guest in search of a fork reaches for the wrong drawer.

And as you keep dragging everything with you, you’ll be hyper aware that any turbulence in life could cause the contents in your overhead compartments to shift, and who knows what could befall any poor soul who happens to open those.