None of This Makes Sense

We all have limits. Mine, apparently, consists of clutter + unfinished projects + insects + cold weather. Once reached, everything is wrong and it feels impossible to get out from under. I’m getting dangerously close to my limit. I think you’d agree, that when the first thing you think of before your eyes are even open, every day, every single day, is the sheets on the futon waiting to be folded, that something is amiss. More than that sentence, I mean. In fact, lets look at that sentence. It’s exactly how I’m feeling all the time. Backwards, mixed up, still making sense but only if you look very closely.

I’m making an effort to write more frequently since I think that words sometimes clog my brain. Having fewer of them in there means I’m less likely to say the wrong ones. Which makes me worry I’m an unusual case of early onset dementia. People don’t usually correct me, but when they do I’m utterly embarrassed, I didn’t even know I’d said the wrong one. So I can’t even be sure it doesn’t happen that often, which is what I’d like to say, because often all I have to go on is an odd look flashing across someone’s face.

And what does that paragraph have to do with the first one? Only that I can’t fold those sheets because by the time I look at the basement door (that’s right, they aren’t even in my line of sight), I’ve realized there are six things that need to be done between me and it and when I go to ask for help the words that come out of my mouth are usually something like, “I better get another cookie.” It’s one giant run on sentence of mental obstacles manifesting in a larger pants size.

And you know what? I don’t even give a fuck that my spring work pants are going to be too tight. Because if I were to think about that, I’d think of the cookies which will remind me of crumbs, which will remind me that there are ants, which will make me grab the broom only to realize our linoleum is a lost cause, which will make me look at the dead tree in the backyard which is vying with the sagging fence for the next pocket of money, after the tax guy and the IRS, of course, because fuck tax brackets, and so I should just squeeze into the pants because I can’t redo my kitchen.

Bet you wish I’d write less. Anyway, since I can only do what I can do, I’ve been listening to the Couch to 80K episodes of the Death of 1000 Cuts podcast. The host is charming, the writing exercises are (so far) short, and I’ve thought of new and interesting thing for the first time in months. And I’m not even trying hard. In ten minutes I’ve accomplished something that I haven’t really been able to do in two years. I probably won’t be paid for anything that comes from it but it might help clear a mental path, leaving room for me to get to the sheets, and the ants, and the clutter.

 

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8 Responses

  1. 1. The right word escapes me frequently – it runs in the family, so this is not alarming. Also? The right pronunciation frequently escapes me. Also runs in the family.
    2. The clutter, the pants too tight? It’s like you’re describing my current world.
    3. Terro for the ants. It works wonders.

    • The right pronunciation is a killer. Someone told me once that it was a consequence of being well-read. I’ll take it.

  2. Thank you for sharing this. Really, I have been there. The long string of constant things to be done tearing through your brain in a continuous stream. I used to just not finish sentences and then walk away. Keep writing, we all need it.

    • That exactly! Sometimes it’s better just to wander off. I’ve perfected a sort of hand wave that I hope is saying “Yes, I know and I don’t care as long as you’re getting it” I use it liberally just so that people get used to it.

  3. It’s like the nightmare version of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, isn’t it? I for one am glad you’re writing. Hope things declutter soon, literally and figuratively.

  4. I’m more of a forget how to say the word I wanna say type of person. I stumble over words a lot and think that I must have early onset Alzheimers or may be having mini strokes. Especially when I’m worked up. Being at a loss for words has never been my thing, so it’s frustrating. How can I win fights when I can’t think of the words I want to use??!! Damn it.

    I have like 4 days before I have to squeeze into last summer’s shorts. I’m weighing the pros and cons of wearing jeans in 90 degree weather because of this.

    Rebeca knows how to make this stuff to make ants explode. I’ll ask her for the recipe.

    You better keep writing, because I love your voice.

    • I’m glad I’m not the only one grasping for words. I’m convinced something is misfiring somewhere but now I think that about you, too, friend 😉

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