On Being a Keeper

Don't go in my garage. You will likely not come out alive; or, at least, without imagining me as a 70 year old woman surrounded by boxes, cats and crying on television while the authorities tell me that they cannot find my husband underneath the vintage suitcases and extra chairs. Like this one.

It's not that bad - we clean it once a year-ish, throwing away things that no longer matter and organizing the things that do. But, to people who aren't what I am - a Keeper - it will simply look like piles of things -things - that aren't necessary. Things that make the garage messy and keep my guests from getting their own roll of paper towel.

I call myself a keeper, because that other word - the one that illustrates a popular and frustratingly sad television show - has that connotation that makes it seem as if its a bad thing. And that alone - the idea of Keeping being a bad thing - is something that I struggle with daily.
I have a collection, a massive collection, of vintage train cases and suitcases. None of them cost much, maybe $15 at the most, but most of them were found either dumped by someone else (a few weeks ago I found 4 on the side of the road!) or at thrift stores for pennies. I can't explain to you the feeling I get when I'm perusing the shelves at Goodwill and see a rectangular plastic case of goodness poking out from underneath the heaps of black zip-up rolling bags. Who could give this up? I think to myself. Who would throw such a beautiful and aged item in this bin with the likes of these generic, blah blahs? While I'm checking for fatal flaws (mold, major stains, major rust) I'm imagining where it came from . Who did it belong to? Was it bought by a young woman in 1954 for a cross country adventure? A birthday gift? Something bought but left in the closet until someone finally said "let's take this to Goodwill. You don't use it, you never have". You can always tell how beloved it was by how much wear it has.

And then, I bring it home, and store it with the others. In the garage.

There's so many other things, chairs that look beautiful, have character; the sewing table from the 60s given to me; old vintage radios that I found at Urban Ore for $1 a piece (and couldn't resist); pieces of paper and tidbits of things that I imagine drawing or painting on; knicknacks that call to me; and everything I've bought or been given that has, in my opinion, some use, some value, even if that value is simply a plan, an idea, in my long list of those.
Last year I fully battled my shopping mania and have been very, very successful at learning how to restrain myself and redirect myself. While doing that, I also began to understand why I surrounded myself in things, why it wasn't good for me, and that has helped in many ways to keep me from making lots of trips to the thrift store. However, restraining and fixing that part still hasn't killed the Keeper in me. That part is strong and alive.

I had an idea this morning that I should sell a few of my better train cases and suitcases on etsy, since a seller friend of mine has been very successful at getting great money from hers (she started finding them after I showed her mine). Sorrow came over me. What if a photo project comes along that would be PERFECT for the 20s green case?! And I had sold it off to some other girl somewhere else with another collection of her own.
Somewhere in the faces of these old things, these unique things, I find a personality. I find something I relate to, and a way that we can be mutually beneficial. This is fueled by what I call the Personification Complex (or Brave Little Toaster Syndrome) that affects me and so many kids of my age. The personification of anything that exists (lead by shows such as the Brave Little Toaster, The Velveteen Rabbit, anything made by Pixar, etc) To me, these treasures are alive. I am lucky to have found them; they are lucky to be given a home.

(Go ahead, roll your eyes. Call me crazy. But have you ever thrown a stuffed animal in the garbage?)

I sometimes have the sudden need to simplify. Get rid of everything in this house, everything I've kept just because, everything I've bought simply to make this a home, everything I said I'd do something with but then stored instead. Sometimes I imagine a clean office with no stacked canvases, craft papers, magazines and old sewing books, or irregular bathroom tiles. A garage without train cases. Shelves without oodles of 50s and 60s radios, unique owls, busts of Agatha Christie, and glass birds.


But more often than not, my need to simplify comes from the embarrassment I feel when I watch people discuss Hoarders, or even sometimes, me. I don't want to be the person who has piles so high that food and dead cats become rotten in between. I don't want to be dirty, horribly disorganized and unable to function in my home. Ever. I don't think anyone ever does. It's an illness, one that is sad and should be treated as such.

So, when I imagine my train cases, and my things, I feel tension. So much of what I have describes me - not in the way that a Lamborgini or Gucci dress describes someone - but in the way those things are, and the way they work with me. Is it wrong to want to conserve things that have character that others throw away? Is it wrong to collect?

Is there a happy medium between Keepers and Hoarders? Or, are Keepers always destined to be Hoarders in the end?

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one of those weeks

This is Felix, my friend Samara's pitbull/great dane/lab mix puppy. It was a "right place, right time" type of situation.

I am just not having a good week. Most of it is self-induced. My head is fuzzy and I'm totally lacking any ambition or getup-idness to finish the myriad tasks I have on my plate. I feel overwhelmed not in that stressed way, but in the way that I simply ignore everything and put myself in to an imaginary world where I don't have to think about my real responsibilities. Certain things happening around me are leaving me wishing that I could move forward with certain life events and future situations, but then I'm unable to make a clear workflow for getting to those points, further fueling the cycle.

This, along with other symptoms and situations now indicates to me that I'm in a down cycle, in which my functions are really affected by depression, as it presents in me. The older I've gotten, and the more time I've spent working on my cycles and trying to bridge the gaps between mania and depression, I have been able to eliminate a lot of the negative thinking patterns associated with depression, where things get really bad - rebellion, anger, suicide, and the general inability to understand how the person who is depressed is not the person who is normal. I have gained a very clear and powerful sense of self worth and importance (which must be separated from self confidence) that always helps me to see that life itself is very important, and I as a person am very important. I am proud of that. However, those things haven't eliminated the depression - just made it evolve, thus sometimes seeming foreign to me when it occurs.

I don't ever want to use manic depression as an excuse. In fact, despite overwhelming evidence and fact as well as a family history, I spent much of my life denying it - and still now, when things are bad, find a reason to blame my self-aware stupidity instead of an environmental and genetic disorder. Unfortunately, a major symptom. That's probably the main reason that I've had such a difficult few years, years of self-exploration and development in which I'm forced to face the really, REALLY ugly side of this condition. It's not an excuse, because I AM in charge, even when I'm depressed. I am in charge, even when I'm manic. There's no one who can make decisions for me, or be inside my head, or make it easier for me because this is life and we're all responsible for ourselves, even if it's a tougher assignment. And that's really the choice. I can stand up and figure shit out, or I can cry and live in an unhappy prison of my brain. Really, I feel this query is no different than the one everyone on the planet is faced with. Just slightly tilted.

I was listening to Philosophy Talk this morning, and interestingly enough they were discussing the topic "how important is self identification?" Such an ideal subject for my morning. The interesting antidote on the table was Alzheimer's patients, who often have a different take on how they see their future self being treated at 40, and how their 70-year old Alzheimer's mind sees that differently. They are the same person, one argued, but the disease has incapacitated the person beyond what they are, therefore, the person they were before Alzheimer's should be trusted. Not true, said another - do we trust what the infant or toddler versions of ourselves say when we're 25? Or the 25 year old at 40? No - these are evolutions in personality, and even though we are the same person, those evolutions also change our identity and should be taken into consideration, even if they a a far cry from the normalcy of the past person.

Herein lies the true painful realities and debated realities of mental disorders. Are these perceived illnesses simply personality, different than those of most? Are mania, depression, anxiety, etc. no different than generosity, selfishness or trustworthiness? Our identity?Are these horrible symptoms caused by our brains simply being wired in a certain way, one that can be re-wired without the aid of drugs? Can we just accept, take responsibility for what we are, how we are, and change what we want to change? Should we be held responsible for doing so? When are we just a lost cause?

I struggle with this. I remember my Grandma, who was sick, though I didn't realize the full implications of her disorders until she was living her final days. I loved her. She was loyal, loving, and generous with her time and money. However, she was unstable. One day she'd come to our house with bags of stuff - toys for me, household supplies for my mom, whatever she'd felt like we needed. Once, she brought me a Beta fish and tank with supplies, for no reason other than she knew I'd love it. Soon after, my Mom would be trading shifts with my Aunts on trying to get her out of the bathtub, where she'd stay for days in a crippling depression. I'd ask how she was feeling and she'd answer, "not good. I'm just feeling very bad, not good." My mom would spend hours on the phone, discussing medication with her doctor - the giant ziplock bag of pills she was prescribed often had adverse reactions to each other, and she'd go back and forth through different brands, trying to find the right cocktail. Unfortunately, she never did.

I have so much. I have a wonderful, wonderful husband who understands me, loves me for it, and gives me the support I need. I am creative, and talented at certain things. I think I'm fairly intelligent and focused on becoming moreso. I have some great friends in many places, a couple of loving family members and fantastic in-laws. I live somewhere culturally and creatively diverse where almost anything is possible. I have a home, a car, and a bed to sleep in.

I get so entirely frustrated during times like these, when the depression, the fuzziness, the carelessness that goes along with it compromises both the things I've worked for and the ability to see what I have. I am tired of fighting, tired of struggling and tired of explaining myself.

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Chubby

I've been subduing my sensitive side on this blog lately, opting for less gory material as I transition into a profession that bares only my name. But I'm throwing up my hands on that one for the time being and throwing up a nice healthy chunk of language because I'm hungry and annoyed. The hunger is caused by a changed eating habit that incorporates smaller, more frequent meals and a very low caloric intake. The annoyance is caused by the hunger.

For those of you who know me, I'm chubby. Some would say fat, though I choose not to. For most of my life I have been chubby, save for a short time in high school when I "discovered" starvation and got down to a size 8 - which by many standards is still "fat". Since then, I've gone between 12 -14-16 regularly.

Until two years ago, I barely thought about my weight - I thought. I never dieted, even when I was on the heavier side. When I started planning my wedding in 2006, I freaked, as I'm sure most women do. Friends and family I rarely see. Pictures that will last for-ev-er. I went on the South Beach Diet, which consists of mostly meat protein, very little carbohydrates and the substitution of sugar with alternative. It worked. I lost 8 inches around my waist between my first dress fitting and the day I tried on the original muslin, much to her chagrin but happiness for me. It felt great. I gave up sugared soda and learned about portions, but I was miserable without bread and pasta. I ended that diet a few weeks before my wedding when my husband convinced me to try vegetarianism, which made great sense to me after some investigation. By the time December rolled around, I had gained all of that weight back.

Fast forward to 2008, past endless diets and fasts, pounds lost and pounds gained. I'm miserable. More miserable than I've ever been, because I've realized that my problems with food and weight are much more than a few extra calories not burned on the treadmill. My problem is my head. And this problem has been reocurring, but hidden behind the other crap my brain has been dealing with.

(Remember, I warned you at the beginning of this post. )

Being an emotional eater is not at all out of the ordinary. I imagine there are more women who do it than women who don't, so I've found no shortage of confidants in the battle. It just sucks, and will always suck. And attempting to deal with the problem, while cutting calories and ending the binging, is like losing your best friend when you need them most. There's no one to quiet the horror inside my head; just visions of mashed potatoes. Withdrawl.

Crappy food is everywhere. Horrible, high calorie, saturated fat touting foods that are advertised on Television all hours of the day. Why not have a Carls Jr. Hamburger stuffed with bacon? Why not add double meat to your Subway sandwich? You've got to eat M&M's. And Ice Cream. And don't forget to take a trip to Taco Bell for fourth meal! These are not foods that I ever eat. But when I'm "dieting", they sound like gourmet, gotta have foods.

In fact, the only time that I truly feel hunger is when I'm dieting. Not because I'm always eating, but because, when I'm just normal me, I eat when my emotions tell me to. Not my stomach. I eat when my Mom calls. I eat when I'm depressed. I eat when I'm manic. I eat when I'm bored. I don't eat tons of garbage or thousands of calories. I just eat what makes me feel better.

It's sad. And I've tried to fix it, and failed, so many times. This battle trumps the battle with manic depression; because success is like a pipe dream. At least with the MD I can taste happiness and feel progression that doesn't recind with one mistake. Emotional eating controls my life.

And though I've never felt like my weight horribly affects my beauty, I've realized recently that I never admitted to myself that my weight was a problem. Now, as a "grown up", I have. I feel like I'm shorting myself life. I've begun losing confidence because I don't feel comfortable in my body. I feel like the person on the inside is lost by the person on the outside, who just feels out of control - not ugly - just wrong. It affects my relationship with my husband, not because of how he feels but because I am uncomfortable sharing what I am with him.

It might sound like another fat girl's sob story, but this "chubby" girl has never felt like this. So out of control. Ashamed, and defeated. I used to think fat wasn't bad; and now I think that fat is all that's possible. I can't even imagine being comfortable in my own body, but the thought of what I'm stuck with causes thoughts of actions I won't share with you in this public blog post. And when it comes down to it, when it hurts and I eat, I feel better. I feel comforted.

And the comfort is defeat.

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Bricks

I didn't have an easy childhood. The things that I went through still haunt me to this day - things that I'm just now getting used to talking about, peeling back my clenched fists to expose scarred-anger-sadness-frustration-hopelessness that I have to learn to leave behind in order to be the best person I can be.

But there's people in this world who have suffered so much more than I. Wonderful, broken people who've lost everything and still live. I know one of those people, and she's an inspiration. She's beautiful, kind, generous and loving; much more so than many people I've met who think they are those things. She's had to experience pain I cannot fathom, more than once; yet she's resilient and strong.

My friend just turned 28 last month; and in a few short weeks, she'll be older than her mother or her sister ever grew to be. The stories are tragic; chronic illness that stole two of her three immediate family members and all of the women in her life. A small child who laid with her mother in her hospital bed, unaware of all the things that she would lose, miss, and yearn for as she traveled through her own life. A young adult who stood by her sister as she succumbed to an illness that had plagued her throughout her own young life.

In May, my friend became a mother. Her daughter is a beautiful little person and the light of her life. She's a wonderful mother, as she is a friend, but as she forges through the new world of parenthood, she's haunted by pain. She's tortured by the fear of what she cannot control; the curse of women in her family that she's somehow survived long enough to create a maternal relationship she cannot map. She struggles with the unknown. All of the possibilities, the tragedies, the chances follow her like a spirit; watching her as she lays her child to sleep.

She wants to feel better, she wants to be free. She knows why she's here. But she's built her life on top of a sunken pile of bricks; crafting a facade of strength to hide the sinkhole beneath her. And in order to fix it, she'll have to tear down everything she's standing on slowly, painfully and with care not to lose what's most important.

My friend is a gift to me. She may never realize how much I love her, how dear I hold her, and how close I will be even when the walls of her life are bare wall studs standing alone. I'll do everything I can to share the pain.

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Ready...Set...GO!

My dresses from Alight arrived last night, so I'm on official orders from myself to buy no more clothes until January 2, 2009.

Except if I need underwear. I may. That, I think, is OK.

I went to Target last night and had no problem skipping the clothes.

I'm waiting for Taylor to declare too and share the pain!

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Better Me #1 - Why My Closet Will Have Cobwebs

Things are changing. I'm starting over, in a lot of ways. This is the first post in a series of installments about a big change happening in my life that will surprise some of you and disgust others.

No more stuff.

I'm manic. When it hits, I shop. That's the dirty truth. I've found a way to to make spending incremental money like hitting cocaine. It's euphoric. I can't necessarily explain it, but if you are someone who has obsessive compulsive behavior of any kind, you'll understand why doing it is like a drug you need to feel good.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not going out and buying $300 dresses or expensive shoes. It's the little stuff, from Ross or Target that gets me in trouble. Cheap stuff that doesn't last longer than the guilt I have for buying it. At the height of the insanity I'd buy things that didn't even fit me and store them. Things had tags.

You may think "Nissa. You need self control." And, you'd be right. Unfortunately, it isn't as simple to just stop. It's my belief that my problem is stemmed from years of being horribly poor and being unable to replace holey jeans. We never had money to buy what we needed, so who the hell was saving it? We spent it when we got it because we had to. Now, being an adult, having a job that pays alright, I spend it because I'm afraid if if I don't, it will be gone, and I'll be without all the things I need. It's sick.

And, I don't want to do it anymore. I should say I've been working on this already, because I have. I sold a bunch of clothes on eBay and trash-bagged more to give to Goodwill. I stopped buying clothes that dont't fit. I started using an allowance method at stores rather than just getting whatever I wanted.

I ordered myself three new dresses on clearance from an online store I love last week for my upcoming trip to Las Vegas. They will arrive this week, and once they get here, I'll have the last three new dresses for 2008. No clearance racks, no eBay, no new stuff for the holidays. Nothing.

It's not going to be easy. Withdrawl never is. Can I do it? We'll see.

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