Help In Any Form

I’m still sorting through the stuff I brought with me during the move. Work and commute during the week left me very tired after work and the weekends never had enough hours to take care of everything, so I still have four banker boxes of old paperwork to sort through. It’s not helping that the remaining boxes also contain evidence and references to some unpleasantness that was inflicted upon me during the past decade.

Yesterday, as I prepared for leaving for work, I took a hard look at the remaining boxes taking up space and acknowledged the difficulties I was having in facing them. I turned to the Wood Statues that had the misfortune of overlooking neat stacks of documented pain. “I know y’all are supposed to have a special space set aside for ya, and that nothing ugly or unpleasant is to be in your view, but welcome to my environment. Remember, you asked to come along for this. I want this place cleaned up proper, too, but I’m having a hard time of it. If you want this space clear, you’re going to have to help me stay focused, even if that means yelling in my ear.”

As I set out for work, I was mentally creating a schedule for weekend tasks that I promptly forgot about when work does as work is and time tables go to hell.

By the time I came home yesterday evening, I had forgotten all about my snarky sincere request for help. At least, until I walked up the steps to my front door and saw the notice taped over the lock.


So on Tuesday, the apartment management and representatives from the electric company are going to be making an inspection of all apartment-supplied lighting, appliances, and outlets, including light bulbs, stove, fire alarms, and the breaker box (which is located in the hall). The second paragraph of the notice contained a subtle warning, that if the electric company representatives determine that the renter’s personal property posed a hazard due to the placement or accumulation of materials near the apartment-supplied lighting, appliances, and/or outlets, they may turn off the power until the hazardous placement is corrected and the apartment passes a second inspection.

I laughed.

Y’all don’t even know. I laughed like I just heard the best cosmic joke ever.

Upon entering the complex, I saw other apartment renters hastily shoving all sorts of stuff into their outside storage rooms, but I hadn’t put two and two together until I read the notice. My apartment would pass the inspection right now except for an accumulation of four banker boxes of papers that can’t be camouflaged or “safely stored” anywhere in my relatively small apartment.

I could take the easy way out and put the boxes in my storage room. Which has a light. And will be inspected. And also happens to be where the AC/Heater unit is located. Yea… no.

Or… I could keep my ass offline, load up some podcasts to help keep me grounded in the Now, and spend an afternoon reminding myself that I survived that shit and I am in a much better place physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.

Memories hurt. Memories can cause a welt to form years after even the scar has faded. There are a lot of pain in those boxes that I have forced myself to forget. That trauma was visited upon me, but that trauma is not me. I am going to learn that lesson no matter how many times I have to repeat it this weekend.

I took the flyer straight to the Wood Statues and laid it on the counter before them.

“Thank you. This will do.”

I bowed in sincere gratitude then went about my business of being lazy as fuck on a Friday evening because my weekend was going to be a whirlwind of filing and shredding, and hopefully, joy.