Three and half years in a hotel in the middle of the woods. Also known as Job from Hell. I quit last April or so, burnt out, at the bottomest bottom of depression that far. Some basic recovery took a bit of time and antidepressants and suddenly, I got back to normal. Or at least normal-ish.Then, new problems arose. I guess the last time I wasn't depressed to that extent that I'd be actually able to do something long-term and reasonable was 7 or 8 years ago or even more - about the time I graduated and a bit after. Meantime, I got kicked out of the Ph. D. programme and another school, published two books - or it might've been only one and the other had been published before, I'm too lazy to go and look it up right now - and got persuaded into the hotel nonsense which seems to have eaten half of my brain.
I'm at a point zero and need to find out what to do with my life. I should move my ass away from parents' where I got stuck while working at the hotel and not being able to manage a place on my own. I should get a decent job or some such. I should get some friggin' self-esteem. And that's the main problem. I'd describe myself as 'can read, can write, can find her own ass without a map, knows nothing, never had a decent job' because three-ish languages, art history degree, having run a hotel, that doesn't count. Everything I do never counts because everything I do is a trifle any asshole could do. Also, I'm fat and ugly.
I have antidepressants that work (and that's a source of major fun as well but that's another story) so I have energy enough to deal with this shit and started getting some therapy. The therapist says that I seem to think in less messy ways but... well.
During those thee and half years in the middle of nowhere, I kept buying things and stacked them aside. Clothes in the size that will suit me best when I lose that extra weight (15 kilos down, 30 to go yet and I don't care if it's reasonable or healthy, I won't be 20 again but at least I can have the figure and common sense be damned), books, just stuff. In summer, I wasn't at home, in winter, it was winter but now I have daylight enough and still some time so I started throwing things away. Very cathartic, I highly recommend it. Also, no, I won't need 30 somewhat worn t-shirts useful for painting or other dirty jobs, one will do and one can always find some lousy clothes that can be tossed after one use. Nobody will ever need 20-years-old travel guides or trashy novels. The sound of stuff falling to the bottom of the dumpster is very refreshing.
Mom got the same idea, mainly because her office is moving to a smaller space and she wants to retire and she has her own furniture there and 20+ years ago, it was expensive furniture! so she can't throw it out and she likes it so she can't even donate it to some nice people. I hinted the city dump but she wasn't persuaded. Instead, she decided to remodel the so-called guest bedroom, her former office which has been a depository of shit nobody needed since around 1997. Cue trashy novels, random trinkets, a big box of plush toys because what if someone visited with children... We, and by that I mean a generic 'we', not me and mom, it was actually a cousin, neighbour and neighbour's son, moved the butt-ugly made-to-measure shelf to the attic. The neighbour who had built it those 20+ years ago offered to take it to the city dump but mom didn't want to - she will put things in it. The things are mainly her old books, dusty, moved to the dusty shelf in the dusty attic. "I'll throw some old bed sheet over the shelf so that the books don't get dusty," she said. The spare room will serve as my office until... well, I'll gather some courage and money and move away and I'll try to make it happen as soon as possible. I asked for two of mom's tables, I don't really like them but they are tables and they are free. I refused the shelves and I insisted, the tables are tolerable while the shelves and cupboards are butt-ugly.
My parents seem to be developing hoarding tendencies and it's making me nervous. Yes, I have a lot of shit. No, I don't know about all of my shit because during three and half years in the woods, I employed the retail therapy a lot and due to who-knows-what, I developed some memory problems so I don't always know what I have but I'm dealing with it. As in, actually sorting things, throwing away the bad stuff, donating whatever I won't be needing any more but may be of some use to someone else and mentally cataloguing the remains. It feels so good! Now I need to find a big box, I have some yarn to donate. (Some = ten kilos or so.) I'll still have a stash beyond lifetime but what the heck.
Off to dumpster diving, no way I'm buying a cardboard box.