Cluttered

I keep trying to write this blog post, and when I get the words written out, I realize that I have gone too far. I will be telling a story that is not mine to tell. It will reveal things that someone else may consider private. (Nothing illegal, or immoral. Just something someone else might not want discussed in public.) A blog is gossip, after all. You get one side of any story that is told.

We live in a cluttered place. It's very small and there are three of us. We all have our things and they kind of compete for space. We see each other's things: mail, purchases, laundry, medication. And this is where it becomes not my story to tell. It frustrating, because it affects me, and my hygge. And deep down, I know that as much as it isn't my story, it isn't my responsibility either. My best bet is to let it rest. 

I'm a clean as you go type person, and a semi-un-fit housekeeper at that. The house will be clean enough to eat off the plates, but you don't want to set up your charcuterie on the floor. The floors get vacuumed. swept, and mopped every day. I keep dishes washed, surfaces wiped down, furniture dusted. It's clean enough. 

In my mind, the clutter equals depression. In reality, it is mostly caused because there are three of us in a small space and our things compete for space. There is a component of depression there. We are all three recovering from recent trauma. 

I need to do more to deal with my depression. I told myself on the train here that I'd seek counseling when I got here. Then I said I would get help when my insurance got changed over. Now I have no excuse really. So, I say as soon as I get back from Chicago. I'm putting it off. As easy as it is to overshare on social media about other people, calling it venting or telling my story, it is hard to do it when the person I'm venting about is myself, when it's me being scrutinized. I want to control my private things.