messes

Tired beyond belief and I feel like everything is a mess.
Well, it IS a mess.

I realized that I have way to much stuff. This stuff is really bogging me down.

I never really thought of myself as being someone who had a lot of stuff. I mean, I'm not a materialistic type of person. I like used items, recycling is second nature, and I'm totally into finding a used dresser on the side of the road or getting a cast-off chair from my boss. I had times in my past, mostly when I was in my early 20s, when I was a total idiot about money, and I did buy some moronic things. A purple coat that never fit. A hat that made my head look like a mushroom. Chocolate cake. A lot of chocolate cake.

But I thought I'd gotten over all of that. Well, I have been working through money issues for quite some time now, and I know I have a long way to go. I don't know how to deal with money very well. I think that I can blame it on a lot of things now that I'm older and wiser, but that age and wisdom hasn't necessarily made me good with money.

Anyway, as careful as I've felt like I've become with money, it never goes far. Part of it is choices as to work. Believe it or not, owning your own business doesn't usually make you into a Bill Gates or a Donald Trump. I never expected to get rich from the businesses, though, just like I knew I was going to be superpoor if I chose to take the other job I'm currently working at, which pays very slightly more than not much at all. (It's an Americorps job. Nuff said.)

My education is where I'm earning, though. I'm learning a LOT, but not earning much.

So, where the hell did all of this STUFF come from?

Boxes of art supplies.
Boxes of dishes.
Boxes of pens.
Boxes of books.
Boxes of mementos.
Boxes of photos.
Boxes of boxes. Seriously.
Boxes of magazines.
Boxes of yarn. Yarn! I didn't think I had enough to fill boxES!!!

Faced with moving into an apartment that is half, yes HALF the size of my old apartment, and faced with all of this STUFF, I was then faced with myself having a major freak out.

This is big. Too big. I mean my stuff, it takes up too big of a space on this planet. I'm bogged down with all of this extra weight. Gone is the girl who dreamed of packing her backpack and taking off to move across the country. Nope, that girl is feeling stuck by all of her stuff. It has to change.

I realized, while packing and freaking out and crying and tantruming and packing and feeling like it's all never going to end, that so much of this stuff isn't around because I even need it anymore. It's stuff I've maybe lost interest in, but don't want to have lost interest in it. It's like the ADD is conflicting with this sentimentality, and even though the brain has gone on to the next 14 thinks down the path, the heart still thinks that I want to make stuff out of Fimo.

Then. Here's what I need to figure out. How do you convince your heart that it would actually be happier if the Fimo wasn't even around to remind you of your Fimo history? Maybe the memory of Fimo is good enough, and the talisman of 34 unopened packages in various colors is actually not necessary.

Physically, I have to figure this out. Or else I'm going to end up a packrat old lady with piles of yarn and wire and photo paper and pens and strips of rags for rag rugs and paint and books on architecture and painting and the history of vampires and mandalas and Native American myths and more magazines to cut up someday and collage with and DVDs and and and... all around me, with no room to move or look ahead.

So, yeah, it's a mess right now. That's what I've been up to.