The state of my life can be surmised by the state of my room.

 

I like order. I like everything in it’s place. I don’t like people to see my room when it’s messy.

 

But it does get messy, about once a week actually.

 

I try my best to keep it tidy, but during the week everything piles up in corners and on my desk until I’m doing my best to avoid cleaning. By the time the weekend hits I’m emotionally drained and I collapse into an unmade bed ready to sleep for twelve straight hours.

 

Then I wake up. Clean up. And repeat.

 

 

Sometimes, though, things get really hard. Something goes off the hinges of my well ordered life and I find myself falling behind.
School, work, messy relationships, take your pick.
And then suddenly the pile-up stays for weeks, even months.

 

I can’t bring myself to clean it.

I just want to ignore everything and pretend like I don’t have 100 emails waiting for me in my three inbox’s. (One persona, one for school, and one from work.)

 

So I read.

 

Books upon books upon books. Escaping into whatever fantasy I can for as long as I can. Until suddenly, the books stop working. Turning a page makes me anxious because I can see the space between lines filled with endless to-do lists and hinged expectations.

 

I get panicky then. My heart races at nothing, sitting still makes me nervous, and moving around makes it worse.

 

Finally, finally, I send off an email, then two. Then start catching up on my work and realize it was all a lot easier than I made it out to be.

 

I clean my room and my life.

 

Repeat.

 

 

Sometimes, I think I’m crazy.