Declutter

Today is the day, I thought through the tremulous throbs coming from every corner of my dehydrated brain.

So, after two days straight of rolling around under the covers, not willing myself to do more than breathe, I yanked myself out of the cavernous quiltage and plunked in front of my closet.

Clothes, ugh those darn clothes. If it wasn’t for having to pick out an outfit and squeeze my awkward shape in, I’d be peppy and full of energy. Ready to meander through the hills and furrows. Exploding with colorful thoughts and shouting to the world that today has been yet another day full of laughter and bliss. Of finding the beauty in the flowers on the edges of the sidewalks, and splashing through puddles like a kid. Okay, the last one I do – I love rain, and who needs to look fancy for that?!

But today, my friends, begins a new journey. I’ve been reading and listening to talks about minimalism, and although any life change (especially as I get older – at the ripe age of 23, I think I can begin to say this) gets more difficult, I am head over heels in love with the idea. Of course you could type it into google and pull up millions of stories, meanings, and inspirations. But basically, it means compartmentalizing your life & space, choosing to be YOU and leaving out the rest. Because you can, and you should!

It’s a scary thing, I think. Because then I have to begin asking myself, “Why do I smoke cigarettes sometimes? Is this a valuable thing to me?” Of course, the answer is no. So there it goes, chucked out the window. The good thing here is that I have been sick for the last three days and haven’t had a puff – this should help, right?

Anyway, I’m excited for this change. I have been in a constant state of minimally living over the last few months – you know, coming home from a late class, crashing for a few hours, getting up to cook a pizza or scarf down a salad (depending on what I ate last and whether or not I have my period), maybe working on yet another 50 page paper, and sleeping more until I need to scramble out of bed mumbling for another torturous clinical day. You get the picture – my main courses are sleeping, eating, breathing, and working. The bare minimum.

College courses have been wreaking a havoc on me mentally, along with losing a family member, and beginning to deal with childhood trauma. I’m ready for the gusto of life to bring itself on, & I’m going to be ready. With my backpack of essentials, a much more open space of living, and a cleaner soul. If you pick up what I’m laying down.

I know it’s not going to change over night – but, I have started to go through my things. At first, it was so hard to know what to get rid of and what to hang on to. I would think things like ‘but I spent so much money on that,’ and ‘that should mean something to me, after all I spent 4 years of my life committed to karate.’ After getting into the swing of pitching things (or donating), though, I now ask myself two simple questions:

  1. Is this beautiful to me?
  2. Is this functional to me?

Those are the criteria, and if the object fits both, then it’s a sure keeper, probably for ever and ever. If it fits one of the criteria, it’s a keeper for now. Simple as that.

We’ll see if it is as life-changing as they say it is, but for me I really believe that it will be. Since my living space (an apartment behind a hair salon) is a constant state of stress and anxiety for me, which weighs on my shoulders far too much for something which should be a haven to relax or do things which I enjoy, this (I hope) is the very beginning of a larger life style change.

I don’t want to stop at simply decluttering my house, you see. I am ready to ask those tough questions (one is aforementioned – the smoking business). Others include toxic relationships, travel goals, fitness and overall health, and my passions.

There is so much to experience in life, and we only have a small amount of time. So I’m ready to take the leap! Hope you stay tuned throughout my journey.

A favorite quote, which I think fits this post: ‘You can’t stop the waves, but you can learn to surf.’ – Unknown

Much love,

Nikki

Lost

I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t tell him no enough times. Did I laugh? Is that why he did it? I remember telling him no, but the click of the door made it final. ‘I’m not going to fuck you,’ he said, and then unbuckled his pants.

None of that matters. Nothing matters. I don’t matter; I’m a shadow, a sheer scream pulsing through shattered glass. I hated myself. I felt dirty beyond any promise that could have ever saved my soul before. I’m ruined, filthy. God, please just let me die.

Night skies blurred into daylight; some days I didn’t get up, and others I scrambled to my feet just to keep the bare minimum going; to keep my parents from worrying that I wasn’t alive and to pay for gas in the car for the days that I drove without end, hitting the dashboard until I bled.

That clear liquid that would burn my throat, and divulge my thoughts, if only to regurgitate them hours later. The burning liquid was my best friend; my only friend really. Just like the stretches of flat land in the oil field world surrounding me, my world was barren, empty, depleted of hope far beyond my previous crises, which is a statement.

Through every pore of my being, despair flooded. I would meet eyes with those who knew my desperation; not by talking. A sad soul has a way of knowing its company. It didn’t get better. Work went from bad to worse, I began stealing petty things from my housemates for no reason.

Moving home – this was the worst of it. Back in the innocence of my parent’s home. Not leaving my basement room apart from showering, sometimes twice per week. Sleeping and waking were as one. I have no desire to live, God. Please, if you have mercy please let me die.

Weeks turned into months. Dormant, flat. No affect. No pain, no emotion. I simply existed, breathed, drank, ate. I thought about suicide, but somewhere beyond the barricade around my anger and shame, I knew it wasn’t the answer.

To be continued . . .

 

The Girl

From what I recall, she was small with a bursting heart that couldn’t quite contain the colors held within it. Braided hair by her mother, her safeguard. And oh, her mother; brilliant streaks of sky in her eyes and beams of warmth from her smile. Pain crushed the girl’s inside when her mother cried; she didn’t cry a lot, though. Just on the really bad days.

Still, summer days were spent with wind over her face, dirt covering most surfaces; what any little kid should have. Time was spent with her brother, Brady, mostly (who was two years younger than her). The girl had three older sisters too, but as far back as my mind willingly takes me, she didn’t have as much of a connection with the three sisters growing up (though there are plenty of happy times with them too).

Tramping down the leaves in the woods, to make biking trails. Crafting rafts from old Styrofoam to cross the ‘pond,’ (which in retrospect was more of a swamp), feeding canned corn to the fish, and then scooping them up with a net. Her brother would pull the wagon, with her in the back, or course; her and the catch of the day in the evening. The two were inseparable, and their imaginations knew no limits.

She would lay awake at night, dreaming of all the things she would one day accomplish; nothing was out of her grasp. One day, she could hop on a plane, and move to Italy! – Maybe it’d be her own plane. She knew she’d become a pilot someday, and a nurse, or maybe join the army! She could learn to dance, swim, and surf! She’d never sit around waiting for life to find her wasting its precious seconds.

Then, the fight against sleep slowly surrendered, she’d drift off, clutching her maroon teddy bear from her daddy. Sometimes it was hard to find her breath as her five-year-old world was so full. She would go to sleep at night, and pray that tomorrow would be just like this day; she was whole, with an inner dance that was beautiful.

This is the girl I’m trying to find again. I’m on a soul-search, looking for my very own. Because once a girl is shattered, she has to find all the pieces and glue them back. With each piece, the immense fear and raw emotion that washes back makes this process more difficult than I could relay to you in words. Even when the pieces are glued back, one is never the same.

So, I would like to say this. For anyone who is out there who wonders ‘will it really matter if I hurt her/him now? She’s/he’s only six. . . she’ll/he’ll never remember this when she’s/he’s 25. Or ‘I wonder if this is taking advantage of her/him legally?’ . . . PLEASE, stop. Walk away; if you have a heart at all, if you give even one damn, WALK away.

The traumatic event at a young age WILL define a significant part of the victim/survivor’s life. It WILL leave her/him shattered beyond any desperate hope of well-being for a very long time, if not forever.

I refuse to give in. I’m going to get back to that happy, light-hearted girl who is so separated from my current self that sometimes all I can do is look at old photographs and wonder ‘who are you?’ And if I’m lucky enough, spill a few watery tears, the only time I feel human – the only time I feel okay. Because I’d rather feel pain, than nothing at all.

I’ve come a long way from where I was – I’m no longer suicidal. I don’t need mind-altering, throat-warming drinks to get through the day (and the night). I don’t look to the contents of the fridge to comfort my loneliness as much. I don’t change 26 times before I run out the door, still feeling like trash. I don’t sit in my college classes completely silently, thinking the whole time about how dirty, and ugly I am, and how best to leave without drawing attention to myself. I don’t shower three times per day just to feel a little clean, tears falling the entire time.

Now I use sleep, sometimes in excess. Sometimes I use exercise until my whole body hurts. Now, I hit my fists hard on the dashboard, sometimes until they bleed. Now I have begun to feel worthy. I catch glimpse of beauty. Sometimes, I even feel beautiful. There are times when I pray and bad thoughts don’t swarm. I don’t feel angry at God anymore.

You don’t get to control how I feel anymore. And I pray that all the other kids you hurt can find peace, too. And for those of you who need someone to talk to, I’m always here for you.

Much Love,

Nikki