Sometimes, things just get screwed up. Mistakes happen. And, occasionally it gets overwhelming. You start to think of everything that's gone wrong, of the mess that's left, and you begin to wonder if it's really worth it.
I felt like that yesterday. I've been charged with cleaning up the college's print shop. It's an old room filled with blueprints and schematics for the buildings, operating manuals, miscellaneous crap, and dust that hasn't been stirred since 1987. There are flat files(filing cabinets made for storing blueprints-they have long flat drawers) on all sides and a few bookcases full to the brim. In the middle of the room is a large, flat table that I've been using to stack the prints as I rearrange them.
The most interesting feature of the design of this table is that with a bit of force, it shifts from flat to almost entirely vertical. Yesterday, in the early afternoon, I was trying to lift a print that must've weighed twenty or so pounds. Twenty pounds isn't much of a problem for me, but twenty pounds of large, flat, unwieldy paper? I tried to hoist it onto the table when the damn thing gave way, spilling all of those neatly stacked prints onto the dusty floor.
I'll be the first to admit that it was my fault, but it didn't stop me from being angry, frustrated, and-despite my strict "no crying rule- on the verge of tears. I know I've used the phrase "I needed to sit down and count to ten"
several times, in my conversation if not my writing. This is the first
time I really understood the feeling.
At the time, I'd also been thinking about the end of an era in my life. My baby, my beautiful car Orion is... probably not coming home to me. I've recieved some funny looks for talking about a car the way I do, but I frankly do not give a fuck.My boy and I are drifting further and further apart, and I'm starting to wonder if there's any hope left at all. There's still love, of course, but no excitement, he won't talk to me about anything real(when we do talk at all). I can't convince him to go do anything. I feel awful, because he's been nothing but loving and sweet lately, and I just want him to give me space. I've been thinking about turning our library back into my bedroom. As far as I can see, my theatre career is on hold. I can't find a group that feels like home, and I'm just tired of trying.
All at once, it seemed that my whole life was falling apart, just like those stupid prints.
A few minutes later, someone walked in to see how the work was going. Aside from the obvious pile of paper in the middle of the room, he noted that the room was looking much better than when I started on Monday. It was a nice reminder that even though I'd fucked up, I'd already done some good work.
I ended up leaving the pile alone for the afternoon, working around it as best I could(Not going to lie, there might've been a few footprints on it). This morning, I turned on the lights and got set up for the day. With a sigh, I started to pick up the prints one by one and restack them. When I got to the heavy print that had caused all the ruckus before, I asked one of the carpenters to help me get it onto the table.
And that's life. We fuck up and make a mess of things, and sometimes the best course of action is to leave it alone, work around, and deal with it when you're calm and focused. Then comes the task of picking up the pieces, one by one, and putting them back. You might need help for some of the bigger pieces, but that's okay! And if a task seems daunting or overwhelming, start piece by piece.
If you're lucky, maybe you'll even have someone that comes along, sometimes unexpectedly, and reminds you of how far you've come already.
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