When I find myself in a funk that I can’t define, I turn to music.
JOURNALING
Then, once I’m ready to process and pinpoint my negative emotions, I write. I don’t stop to judge or edit my thoughts, I just let it all out, the good and the bad. My journal is one of the few places where I’m honest with myself. Amazingly, I usually find answers to what I’m feeling after the fact once I’ve reread my entries.
Photo by Jessica Lewis ud83eudd8b thepaintedsquare on Pexels.com
COMIC RELIEF
The saying, “laughter is the best medicine” is a proven fact, at least for me. So, I try to see the lighter side of things when I can and when I can’t, I find something funny to watch or listen to. Or I hang out with my little nephew who cracks me up every time.
ORGANIZING/CLEANING
I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds organizing and cleaning therapeutic. I have challenging days and semi-challenging days with my health issues, but even the simplest of sorting—my purse, my bookshelf, my medicine drawer, my makeup bag—seems to put life in order.
After implementing self-coping mechanisms, if I’m still overwhelmed or funked out, I call up Bestie, my sister, or make an appointment with a therapist. The advantage of therapy is that it’s a neutral environment and offers perspectives that I haven’t considered.
It started with peeling paint. Actually, the front of the house had been that way for years with lots of promises to help but no follow throughs. A drum of “Oscar Meyer yellow” had occupied my storage room for so long that a friend and I wondered if it was any good.
The following Saturday, she showed up and attempted to open the bucket to no avail. So, she suggested I finish scraping off the peeling paint and promised once that was done, she’d see what she could do.
Eyesore or not, though, scraping was no easy feat for someone with arthritis in both hands. So, I enlisted the help of my cousin who’d never done any kind of home improvement work either.
As he toiled, we realized quickly we would have to do the whole thing and not one little patch. Finding a cutoff point was next to impossible once the paint started coming off. I relayed this conundrum to my friend when she asked how it was going, and although she didn’t believe us initially, she definitely did once she tried it. “We’re going to have to paint the whole thing,” she conceded.
“Have you ever thought about just going with a different color? This yellow is…” I sensed she wanted to say ugly by the look on her face, but she kept it to herself.
“All the time,” I admitted. Not because of the color but more so because of the years and memories tied to pulling up to a yellow house, whether in its pastel form or its most recent mustard shade.
My friend’s enthusiastic, “let’s do this” pulled me from my thoughts. Yet, her excitement was contagious. So, to the store we trekked with no plans, funds, or experience aside from her painting her own house. I put faith in the latter and studied color strips in Walmart as she browsed aisles. I knew I didn’t want dark brown, but I realized it was time to depart from yellow. Moreover, I was scared of white because I live in a mossy, piney, leafy, damp area.
Unfortunately, our Walmart nixed their paint mixer when they remodeled, so we had to pick from the shelves.
“Who’s going to pressure wash if I get white?” I asked her.
“I will,” she volunteered.
We went with white, along with something called Cocoa for the trim. A few days later, my stepdad who paints houses and interiors as a side gig, stopped by and put in his two cents. “First, I wouldn’t have gone with that brand of paint,” he admonished. Then, “why are you all painting the door that color? Why not the same color as the trim?” It went on and on with plenty of if he were painting it, he’d have done this and lots of you all don’t know what you’re doing. If you’ve read this far, you might agree him. But we never said we were experts. Or even semi-professionals. My cousin and I are barely amateurs and learned each day through trial and error.
As the days wore one, between Stepdad’s critiques, Mom’s color wheel (because she said I needed one), and everyone’s input, the impromptu home improvement experiment became UNfun, fast. I went from thrilled and empowered to overwhelmed and tired. Thus, as I tend to do, I handed over the reins to everyone else, relinquishing my thoughts, opinions, and ideas because they didn’t seem to matter. If Mom wanted the entryway whatever shade the color wheel suggested, she was welcome to it. If Stepdad said we needed his expensive but heavy as lead brush and that the door should match the trim, fine. And if Friend wanted an alternating pattern of colors though I’d prefer continuity, I’d make her the boss. Whatever it took to satisfy everyone so they could chill out. Therefore, I texted her and told her to do whatever she saw best, giving out instructions that would appease all of them.
But my friend, the keen observer she is, wasn’t buying it. “Are you sure about that, or has someone talked you out of what you want?”
“Nah, I just don’t see how what I want is going to blend in,” I said, defeated and frustrated. In truth, everyone had talked me out of what I wanted. Plus, there were the bricks to think about which are still the complimentary shade of the original house color—or should I say ONE of the original colors, because when we started scraping, we found white and wood.
“What do YOU want?” My friend asked me.
It was the most profound question anyone has ever asked me, and I didn’t have an immediate answer. I did, but…I didn’t. Did I want a pristine white house with cocoa trim? Or a warm, cozy, cocoa house with soft white trim? Could I pull off a blackberry door, one that represents all I’ve been through in my lupus journey and what it took to even get to a remodeling point, albeit on a low, low budget? Could I even afford to do what I wanted?
“Take time to think about it. Besides, you’re the one who has to pull up to it every day and look at it. So, forget about me, forget about anyone else, and make your own decision.”
My own decision? As in call the shots?
Anyone who knows me knows that assertiveness isn’t my thing. I spoke up, though. “Trim it in white, do the rest in this,” I said holding up the can of cocoa.”
“Okay…if that’s what you think.”
I knew it wasn’t the route she would have taken, but it was the path I’d chosen. It was what I thought, and the sheer act of voicing my opinion assuredly and convincingly was exhilarating! The house became a labor of love. On days that I could, I forged on, never realizing how relaxing a brush, upbeat jazz, and fresh, outdoor air could be. And on the days that I couldn’t, usually immediately after trying to “forge on”, I enlisted help—my cousin, my friend and her daughter, anyone with hands and time.
Slowly, very slowly because the project isn’t complete, we created a clean slate, a fresh start, a home with new stories and possibilities. No longer is everything tied to the past.
I’m so happy when I pull into the driveway, knowing the work has been a joint effort and most of it a shared effort in the most literal sense. A few fake flowers from a friend’s house, some old ones recycled from my closet. A dollar store wreath we lucked up on at 40% off.
I’m loving it. And there’s no stopping me now 🙂
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More story to come.
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Please overlook these dark, grainy pictures. It was dark and rainy by the time I thought about photos
Lists and Life 