Sunday, February 21, 2010

cleaned my room.

Cleaned my room today. A four hour clean. Anything to avoid studying. Pres starting tomorrow. I’m fine now (having not looked at the books for more than a minute all this week), but I know I’ll be crying by tomorrow evening. But I just can’t make myself feel guilty. Not yet anyway.

So my room is sparkling clean. Some sort of calm restored. I found loads of things I’d forgotten about, including (bizarrely) a tin of deodorant that I was saving for sentimental reasons. I sprayed it and wished I hadn’t. (I’ve always been one for smells. Smells remind me of different times in my life, sometimes more than photos do.) I threw the deodorant in the bin.

I also threw out stupid CDs I’ve had with years. I tried to get rid of some books too but that was near impossible. I’m very attached to my books. I managed to divest myself of about six or seven children’s ones (though obviously not the likes of Enid Blyton and Roald Dahl) and that was about the best I could do. Harder again was throwing out all my old copies of NME. Even though I never even read that magazine anymore and more than likely don’t even like the music they’re appraising these days, it was tough. Parting with a different epoch. (Why am I so obsessed with epochs?)

Found Busted’s first album. Anyone remember that gem? It looked like it could have been damaged but, luckily, true genius stands the test of time. I also found my ticket from when I went to see Busted in concert when I was, like, thirteen.

I started reading through old diaries as well and I very nearly vommed at the freak of a girl that I was. I said ‘LOL’ a lot. But I wasn’t being ironic. What’s with that, like? Found school journals from Second Year upwards. Second and Third were by far the most graffiti-filled academic years. And my TY one is virtually empty, a fact I found quite amusing.

I kept some things, even though my immediate instinct was to burn them in a paroxysm of rage and sadness. Old photos and notes and things like that. I dunno. I feel like if I had binned them, I’d regret it sometime. When I wanted to look back on my life, y’know? Okay, so my life doesn’t look like that anymore (nor does my hair, actually), but I was happy then. A different kind of happy. And I think it’s important to at least acknowledge that by keeping the photos, rather than binning them and trying to convince myself that none of that even happened. It’s healthier this way, surely?

I made myself a collage in my diary of all my appointment cards from the psych. clinic. I don’t know why, but I find it hilarious.

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