The state of my apartment had accurately reflected the state of my mind in the week leading up to this one. I couldn’t bring myself to make order out of the chaos. I think maybe I wasn’t supposed to.
Because now, these days are therapy; I am systematically going through each room, chucking everything that I don’t love. Clearing away clutter and freeing my soul. I can feel the emotional associations attached to stuff, but realize that memories are often better than the physical things. I can release the things which are crowding me. I feel lighter. Relieved. Almost giddy.
I also find that I’m recognizing deep feelings of anger and resentment and sorrow and hurt. And I’m forcing myself to deal with them. They come from different places, at different times of my life and anything can cause them to bubble to the surface of my otherwise pleasant state of consciousness.
I think about what caused them, and how it relates to what is happening now, in my life and in the lives of other people; some of whom I don’t even know personally. I look at Dacia’s experience this week and I am reminded of a time when I felt I had to be brave, even though I was scared to death. And though I put up a good front, inside I was hurt and resentful and afraid and angry at the universe for allowing it to happen.
So I work. I scrub. I write. I cry, and it feels good.