My writing comes from a place of manic creativity that often overflows into other activities, usually doll sculpture, sometimes miniatures, sometimes painting, sometimes sewing and upcycling.
I need this. I need to be able to put my hands out and find what I need. As such I know where everything is. It looks like my room is totally chaotic – my partner’s too tall to go into my bedroom. We’ve been together 17 months and he’s never even seen it.
Here’s the thing, though. I like the chaos. I sort of even need it. It’s not dirty or dusty, just messy. I NEED that mess. I know that I struggle to categorize and that that’s part of my condition, but everything is in a place that makes sense to me, and other people’s ‘obvious’ categorization is genuinely upsetting to me when applied to my space.
A friend of mine was recently dog and cat sitting at the house while everyone was away at once. I’ve not slept in my room since. She’s moved everything and it’s not only humiliating that she felt that I needed her to tidy my room (I didn’t, it was fine) but it doesn’t feel like my room any more.
My upcycling projects have been hung up or put in washing piles with my other clothes. No one else has their sewing in their wardrobe unless they’ve decided that that’s where it should go.
My dolls are all together, regardless of repaint/rebuild status and make no sense at all. Some of the headless dolls are missing. I don’t want to suspect that they’ve been thrown away because that would be too much.
My junk journals are for some reason on the bookshelves in full sun. They’re kept in my top drawer to stop them photo degrading, not because I’m a lunatic (though I am, but that’s another story).
I’m trying to change the storage about so that it makes more sense to me and so I might be able to start sleeping in there again without feeling so awful, but I’m not sure it will work. I’m fucking crying even thinking about it. I don’t want people to tidy my room. It’s fine. Or it was. Now it’s someone else’s room and I don’t belong there.
I might be in my 30’s, but please, please don’t touch my stuff.