One Gentle Step at a Time

What My Messy Apartment Taught Me Today About Overwhelm

I woke up this morning feeling horrible.

Certainly not the worst I’ve ever felt, but so far from the way I’d like to feel, the way I know I can feel, that I couldn’t ignore it. I spent the first part of my morning staring at my phone, my head throbbing, the aftermath of days of food my body hates but my brain seems to love, limited movement and, generally speaking, very little contact with the outside world.

I spend hours upon hours every week talking with clients about their healing, about their recovery from all the disasters life has thrown their way. And I realized this morning, in a way that felt different, that I could no longer continue ignoring my own body’s messages: the headaches, the fatigue, the rashes and itchiness, the melancholy, the discontent, the emotional dread that comes and goes but lately has been more present than I’d care to admit.

And then there’s the irritability, the weight gain…my goodness, don’t get me started. And I get it, I’m 51 and in the throes of perimenopause (as my hot flashes have been aggressively reminding me lately), but come on.

Something’s gotta give.

So I decided that today would be the day. I stopped playing one of the many silly, dopamine-inducing video games I’ve been engaging in daily for weeks now, went to my apps, deleted them all and got myself out of bed.

I want to be honest here, more so for me than anyone else.

What I was met with made me shrink back into myself immediately. My apartment was a disaster. The space I created to help me experience joy in a world that often lacks it was far from inspiring. Stuff everywhere, dying plants, remnants of unfinished projects, piles of books and papers, boxes and bags of items I decided to donate during a purge I began more than three weeks ago. My home was the clearest picture of how I’ve been feeling on the inside: messy, cluttered and stagnant.

I took a deep breath, chose a playlist and started straightening up, reminding myself that today is the day. As I looked around and realized the enormity of it all, I began to shut down again. My insides felt like they were curling up into the fetal position as I ran through my extensive to-do list in my head. I stood at my kitchen sink, turned the water on and let it pour over my hands. Today is the day, I repeated internally.

Then I began to think about all of the today-is-the-day moments I’ve had, too many to count, and I started to shrink even more. It was an all-too-familiar spiral.

Having just yesterday led a creative journaling workshop that fed me in ways I didn’t quite expect, I knew that writing could bring some calm to my chaos. I needed to write this (whatever this was) down. I needed to let it out so I could continue the forward movement that, just minutes ago, had found its way into the part of my brain that makes action happen. But I was frozen, seconds away from tears streaming down my face in a way I imagined would be very similar to the water pouring from my kitchen faucet.

There was no single thing I could point to and say, That’s it. That’s what needs to change. My life needed to change. But how? There were dishes to wash and bags to donate. Floors to vacuum, books to organize, artwork to complete, plants to water and prune, clothes to fold, sheets to change. On top of that, my very recent history of choices was looming. There were the disagreeable food selections, the days I hadn’t gone outside, all the time I’d been spending lately on my couch, in my bed. There were the games, the stupid games, on my phone and the fact that reaching for them had become easier than doing just about everything I knew needed to be done.

Separately, those things felt small. Together, they felt like the over-the-top traffic jam I recently encountered because of a small fire on the side of the freeway.

I’m describing overwhelm, I guess – the inevitable layering of life that happens purely through existence. Little things that only feel little when we’re replete, not depleted. Generally speaking, the life I live is far from as disastrous as it feels. I know this, but I don't feel it. And writing it "out loud" makes the overplayed, dismissive, unhelpful cliché ring through my ears. It could always be worse, right?

Right. Of course it can, depending on what your opinion is of worse and whether or not it corresponds with mine. Listen, I get it. Maybe imagining a life “worse” than the one I currently have could make me feel better. But what if it makes me feel worse? What if I start thinking about all the worst things that could happen to me or have happened to me or have happened to someone else? How soothing is that?

I'm ranting a bit, I know. But I have a point. I promise.

Trauma and stress responses (which are highly individualized, no matter what anyone may want to believe) can leave us with more to tend to or even think about, than we have energy for on any given day. Some things, most things, maybe all of the things get put aside because…we…just…can’t.

A couple of days ago, I just couldn’t. But today? Today is the day. I meant what I said. Maybe tomorrow will also be the day, and maybe the next won’t, but the day after that will. Who really knows? But I digress...

Back to my morning (which has now turned into my afternoon). My hands beneath the water flowing from my faucet, tears ready to pour, my messy apartment, my chaotic, aching brain, my spiral. I was beginning to crash.

And then something happened. The music stopped for some unknown reason, and it fell quiet. I thought, Now is the time to write this all down.

I turned the water off, dried my hands and went to grab my journal. But I couldn’t find it. I couldn’t find my pens, the colorful ones that I am certain brighten both the pages of my journal and my mood. I couldn’t find anything I needed, so I decided to open my computer and type it all out. I had no other option. I couldn’t wait.

Just as I sat down, the music decided to come back on. The melody was perfection, soft and gentle, and the very first note she sang was nothing short of hypnotizing. And then the words, the first words…

It’s such a foreign feeling, but I feel safe with you.

I felt those words at my core, a gentle but clear reminder that despite what my body seemed to believe in that moment, I felt safe. Feeling that allowed me to then know it. I was safe. And there is where my progress would begin.

As I wrote, I could see what had happened at the sink. Today is the day had started out as a means of moving forward, feeling some sense of accomplishment, doing something, anything that I could call a win. Within minutes, I’d turned it into the most unreasonable demand to change my whole life before the afternoon was over.

No wonder I wanted to cry.

My mind was loaded. I was stuck in a traffic jam that wasn’t going to clear all at once. I had to put the fires out one by one. I could begin with the little ones in front of me. I could put a dish away. I could move a donation bag closer to the door. I could eat something that would leave me feeling better than I did this morning, or step outside for a few minutes. And if I needed to sit and write before I did any of that, I could begin here despite typing not being my preferred way to journal.

Writing this has not cleaned my apartment. The plants still need attention, and there is no shortage of unfinished projects I’ll encounter when I close my laptop. But the list is no longer racing through my head in such an overwhelming, maniacal way. I told it to have a seat immediately when I started to write. It listened. 

I then made the choice to eat something nourishing, clear the clutter from a small corner of my bathroom and wash my hair. I came back to this to finish writing after I allowed myself to do something, anything that gave me some sense of accomplishment.

Now I can see the difference between everything I want to change and the one thing I can do next. I’m going to start there. One gentle – maybe imperfect, maybe unimpressive to some – step at a time.

Please note that this blog is intended for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional mental health or other medical advice. If you are experiencing mental health or other medical challenges, please seek support from a qualified mental health/medical professional. If you are experiencing a mental health/medical crisis, please contact your local emergency services or mental health crisis hotline.