This entry contains some revelations that are intensely personal to me. Part of me has hesitated to put it out there publicly like this, while another part of me can’t help but think it may be good for me, to do so. And who knows, maybe it may help someone else at some point. (Some of what comes up in this entry is what I was referring to back in February when I said there would be more about what I was writing about in my next post. Yeah, it took me several “next posts”, I know.)
Two weeks ago, my therapist and I talked about structure. I kind of freaked out (“kind of” being a little bit of a minimization). That was due in large part to some other stuff that isn’t related to this post, but I can see that some issues I’ll include in this post played a part in some of my reaction.
About a year ago, I took my parents with me to a session, and then another time within the same period of weeks, I took my sister with me. (I’d wanted my therapist to meet them because they are very supportive of me and I thought it might be helpful for her to meet the people who are my immediate support system, and it was.) The topic of the lack of structure in my life came up during one of those sessions, but I don’t remember which one it was. (This was long before I knew I had ADD.) It was either my mother or my sister who commented about being concerned that my job seemed to be my only structure – the only thing that made me do something at a specific time. And it’s true, as much as I hated (and still hate) admitting that. If I won the lotto tomorrow and didn’t have to hold down a job anymore, my life wouldn’t have any structure at all.
My therapist and I have talked about schedules before, but we talked some more about the fact that having a list or a plan or knowing that “today is Wednesday, so that means I need to do this and this today” removes a lot of the decision-making that trips me up so badly. I can’t count the number of times I’ve walked out of a grocery store emptyhanded, for example, because I didn’t know what I needed or wanted and couldn’t make a simple decision. It’s why I eat essentially the same thing every night for dinner (with a few variations). If I were to try to plan something different each night, or run out of something that is required for making one of my few standard dinners, I’d be likely to have so much trouble deciding what to make that I’d end up eating ice cream for dinner, or tortilla chips out of the bag. Yes, I’ve done that, on way too many occasions.
My inner critic, while having lost some ground in some areas, is still going strong in others, and the issue of structure and schedules is one of the latter.
I’ve figured out where some of it comes from. I was one of those kids who was picked on. I’m not saying this in a “Feel sorry for me because I was picked on” way. The bullying that went on when I was a kid was tame compared to what goes on today (kids being beat up and having the whole thing videotaped and posted on YouTube for the world to see over and over again – how horrible), and it was 30+ years ago, for crying out loud. It shouldn’t still be an issue now, and for years (many years) I thought it wasn’t, but I guess some ghosts are harder to “cross over” than others.
One of the things that those kids used to do, which I think was actually worse than the general name-calling and fight-picking, was to pretend to like me and to pretend that they wanted to be friends with me, and then laugh and yuk it up when I, the little fool that I was, fell for it and actually believed that they (choke) could really (gag) like me.
And so my inner critic still chastises me over foolish thoughts and emotions, like hope, for instance, or trust, or even spiritual faith, and these have become even more deeply ingrained resistances of late.
Some of the kids who picked on me (and who I really wished would like me) had little or no structure at home. I was raised with structure. My sister and I had set bed times, chores, rules, routines, and my family ate meals together. My parents have always been very structured people who find routines comforting. These kids had absent parents, few rules or routines, and were allowed to do pretty much whatever they wanted. I was in awe. I wanted to Be Like Them. And somehow, during those years, I came to the conclusion that routine and structure at home was for “nerds” (or whatever such kids are called now; we were nerds back then). I thought that being able do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted to do it, represented the height of maturity and freedom. Once I reached adulthood, I pretty much threw out most of the structure I was raised with and I became even less and less structured as the years went by, without even being consciously aware I was doing it, or why, or what a negative effect it was having on my life.
Or how so many of my other attitudes have formed around those feelings associated with those kids, as well.
My therapist says not to give myself permission to not do what I need to do. It makes me think of times I have heard my mom talk about something she is “not allowed” to do, referring to something a doctor advised her against doing or something she knows she shouldn’t do for health reasons. Her wording has always reminded me of a little kid not being allowed to do something, and I have always made a point of not wording things that way when referring to myself. Sometimes Mom will ask me about a particular food product and will ask if I’m allowed to have that. I often want to answer by saying something like, “I’m allowed to have whatever I want, but I don’t eat gluten because it’ll make me sick,” but I don’t because I realize how bitchy it would sound and I wouldn’t want to make my mom feel bad for being concerned and considerate. I’d never thought it out like this before, but saying something like that would also make me exactly like those kids who talked down to me for everything I did and said.
Not allowing myself to do or not do something is not only a foreign concept to me, but the thought sets off a part of my inner critic that berates me not only for not doing what needs done, but also for even considering the idea of not letting myself off the hook (talk about self sabotage – damned if I do and damned if I don’t).
When I hear someone say they like to set their watch ahead ten minutes to “fool” themselves into thinking they have less time, that cynical part of me wants to say, “Gee, if you can fool your own self, what does that say about you? It’s bad enough to be able to be fooled by others, but to be able to be fooled your own self?” (Of course, we all know that I never fool myself about anything. Eyeroll.) It’s that whole “being fooled” thing again.
Well, for the last two weeks, I’ve been consciously working on keeping a more regular sleep schedule, and I made some other schedules that I’m working into making a habit of following, both at home and at work. These are the stepping stones for making noticeable progress on my more obvious and limiting problems.
My life (or my running of my life, more specifically) is in a shambles, plain and simple. Granted, it’s better in some ways than it was a few years ago, but the same or worse in others.
In this entry I’m mostly going to refer to one aspect of my life that is out of control. This is the part of this entry that is so intensely personal and difficult to admit publicly: My apartment is in chaos. Similar to (but on a lesser level than) the photos you may see regarding compulsive hoarding, except that I’m not compelled to collect or acquire more things. Years ago, I can remember things I did that make me wonder if I may have been headed in that direction, but I didn’t.
This article breaks Compulsive Hoarding Syndrome down this way:
Dr. Randy Frost defines Compulsive Hoarding Syndrome based on three criteria: accumulating and failing to discard perceived useless possessions, cluttered living spaces, and significant distress or problems functioning caused by hoarding. Sufferers exhibit an obsessive need to get and save objects, and have anxiety throwing them away because of a possible need or value. They also may form emotional attachments to the objects, leading to saving things for ‘just-in-case’ scenarios. The feeling of doubt sets in; what if I need this and I’ve thrown it away?
This compulsive collecting of and attachment to objects and anxiety around getting rid of them seems to be the main criteria for Compulsive Hoarding Syndrome. I don’t feel an emotional attachment to most of the stuff I have, unless it is a sentimental item that was handed down in the family or that someone gave me, and even then, there is a line of distinction. I actually enjoy getting rid of stuff I don’t need or want. My thing is (mostly) becoming overwhelmed by the clutter (which sounds like such a benign little word for describing something that is such a life obstacle) and not knowing where to start. Of course, my lack of structure plays into how it gets that way to begin with.
It begins (for me) with procrastination. (“Here’s this big pile of mail I just took out of the mailbox. Most of it is junk mail and needs to be thrown away, but I’m doing something else right now, so I’ll do this later.”) Later never arrives, and the piles get bigger, fall over, spawn new piles, occasionally get picked up and dumped into boxes, bags, or plastic storage tubs, but they still need to be gone through so that the important stuff can be sifted out and filed (or shredded, if it contains information that shouldn’t be included in the regular bag of trash).
Since my “situation” differs so much from that definition, I don’t think I fall into that category, except for the similarities of the results of the clutter.
The second criteria can go unnoticed. Living spaces become amply cluttered so as to prohibit activities for which those spaces were originally designed. With more possessions going in than coming out, it isn’t unusual for the build-up to cause narrow pathways where clear hallways once were. It can easily pile up, taking over everything, from floors, counter-tops and chairs, to entire rooms, prohibiting the use of bedrooms, kitchens, or garages. It becomes impossible to use the rooms for their actual purpose.
I haven’t used my office room as an office in a few years. My computer is on my dining room table. I still use my other rooms for their intended purposes, but going from room to room, or even from one part of a room to another, is like running an obstacle course. Step over this and around that. It’s extremely frustrating and claustrophobic.
The third condition involves the anguish caused by hoarding. People who have Compulsive Hoarding Syndrome have trouble with problem solving and processing information. The irony is that sufferers are actually perfectionists who are in constant fear of making a mistake. To avoid mistakes, they take longer than normal to make a decision because they face severe difficulties in doing so. In fact, a lot of time is spent “churning”; moving one pile to another, instead of disposing of anything. Social activities are also hindered as embarrassment prevents sufferers from having company over.
The last couple days, I’ve been entertaining the possibility that maybe, just maybe, a small part of my reason for isolating (which I’ve only touched on in this blog and I’m not really ready to write about in any detail) is because I try very hard to appear “normal” to most people, as if I have structure and normalcy like everyone else, and (1) by the time I get home I’m exhausted from trying to appear normal all day, and (2) if anyone saw my apartment they would know I’m not normal and I wouldn’t be able to fool myself into believing that I’m carrying out the illusion anymore. For awhile, my therapist wondered if the purpose that my clutter serves for me is to keep people away, and it may be, to a degree, but it does seem like it works the other way as well, that I keep people away to keep them from seeing not just the clutter, which is embarrassing enough, but the truth of what it represents: that I am not normal.
I did make a fair amount of progress on organizing and cleaning out stuff several months ago, but then I let it come to a screeching halt when a situation I’d been looking toward as a deadline was changed, and I’m just now picking up (close to) where I left off.
A part of me actually has been wanting (craving?) to establish a detailed schedule and live by it, and the inner critic, voice dripping with condescension, usually says something along the lines of, “And do you get a gold star for everything you do on your chore list?”, making the whole idea seem childish. Only children need schedules. Adults should know what needs done and do it. (Typing that last sentence reminds me of how many times, growing up, I heard my mom tell me that I should know what needed to be done in the house without being told; that I should be able to see that the furniture needed dusted or that the floor needed vacuumed and just pitch in and do it. She shouldn’t have to ask or tell me to do it. But the thing was, I was always oblivious. I don’t know if that is part of the ADD thing or if I’m just clueless, but even now, I need reminders in order to know what I need to do in most situations or I’ll completely forget. ”Out of sight, out of mind” really applies to me in a big way.)
I have tried, though, over and over again, over a period of several years, to come up with a workable schedule that I know I can use. Sometimes I’ve gotten lost in the details while making the damned things and other times I’ve made nice-looking schedules that I couldn’t seem to put into practice. It took me until one night the week before last to realize a big part of what I was doing wrong.
I figured out that I was making them based on what I should do every day once I’m already on-track, like dusting on Mondays and vacuuming on Tuesdays, or whatever. The thing is, right now, dusting and vacuuming can’t happen until stuff is put away and not piled up everywhere, so the schedules always looked nice but weren’t practical at the time I made them. The one I’m working on now is in phases, so it includes the getting-things-together phase before the maintaining-things part.
I took 51 pictures in my apartment the Thursday before last. My plan is to take new pictures every other week and watch my progress. Being in an actual room, it’s easy to not always “see” everything around me because I’m used to seeing the same stuff all the time and I’m usually looking at just one spot or one object at a time when I look around. Still photos, however, are glaringly honest, I am realizing. Even though it’s hard to capture a large amount of space in one shot, the shots nonetheless capture and preserve every single detail with absolute, in-alterable, in-your-face truth.
I may or may not (no promises being made here) post a few of the pictures here at some point, and I most likely will eventually share them all with my therapist, but not until I have the final “after” pictures to go with them. It seems that will take the sting out of sharing them, if there is a “but look, now it’s better” version to go with them.
It’s interesting that, for years, I have said that I couldn’t imagine living with the level of self-imposed regimentation that my mother lives with, but ‘cha know, living with none at all, while simultaneously beating myself up for trying as well as for not trying hasn’t exactly been a piece of cake. You know what they say about doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result?
Perhaps it is time to try something new.
I used to write “I Love Fall” entries in my old online diary every year. I wait for the first cool day, every year, the same way some people wait for big holidays. After the long, hot, humid summers here, Fall feels to me like coming out of a cocoon and waking up.
A month (or two? three?) ago, I was web-surfing and reading about compulsive hoarding. Somewhere (I don’t remember where), I found a web page that had a long list of comments from compulsive hoarders, discussing their situations and challenges. Someone had posted that they were afraid to be seen taking trash out of their house. I don’t quite remember their reason for that, but it struck a chord with me. Every time I start to work on decluttering my apartment, I pile bags and boxes of trash by the front door as I work. And then they stay there. For a long, long time.
I truly didn’t believe there could be anyone out there who was this perfectly suited for me. I mean, what were that chances of that? In every relationship, there are compatibilities and there are differences. There are the things that work out easily and the obstacles to overcome. In each of my past relationships, there were those issues that I had to ask myself if I were willing to accept and work with, and I’m sure each of the people I had relationships with had to ask themselves similar questions about me. In each case, the final answer was “no”.
I started this entry back in January and it’s been sitting in my drafts since then. I finally wrote 
For reasons I’ll get into some other time, my computer is on my dining room table right now and not in my office, where it belongs. The window that is behind me as I sit and work on the computer looks out over the parking lot in front of my apartment, and at the building across from mine.
