Making room for more

I was reading some posts on Rachel's blog, when I came across one on symbols, more specifically symbols of our priorities.  This part in particular hit home...

OK time for another symbol. Your car. Is it full of the detritus of take-out, soccer practice, and last autumn's leaves? Think of this. Your car is a symbol of your freedom. It is your ticket to a better life. Treat it well, as a priority, and you will feel safe, free, and mobile. Maybe, like me, you've been putting off any excursions just because you know your car is desperate for an oil change, and you don't want to take it anywhere compromising. Do yourself a favor, clean it out and get it done. Add some blankets, emergency kit, a first aid kit, and some water bottles. You'll feel ready for anything. Then add a picnic and head up the canyon!

My car is an unholy mess, so this spoke to me and started percolating in my mind.  I can't tell you how many times I've had to tell someone "Sure, I'll give you a ride.  Just give me a minute to clear off the front seat."  No one has minded thus far, at least not out loud, but it has always  been a little embarrassing.  It's a product of how I live my life and it's evident in almost every space I inhabit.

I accumulate something.  It may or may not actually be important but to me, at that moment, it is.  Or it isn't, but I'm in a hurry, feeling lazy, or I don't have a place to put it.

I place it on the floor/front seat/on a chair/somewhere conveniently within arm's reach.

I go about whatever I'm doing.  The item of questionable import may or may not get moved.  If it's trash, it likely won't.

I have a lot of trash.

Papers, water bottles, mail, clothes, things I need to put away.  It never seems like much at all individually, until it becomes this collective Pile Of Crap that I now need to sort through in order to regain my space and sanity.

I admit it; my life is a disaster area.  I'm a borderline hoarder, and really... maybe not even borderline.  There's this room in my life for Crap, to the point that there becomes no room for anything good, anything important.  It applies to inanimate objects as well as people.

There's no room for passengers, not in my car, not in my life.  I can't carry around my load of friends.  I can't reserve a spot for a man riding shotgun.  My Stuff creates a wall around me, a barrier of embarrassment, a monument, a tomb for my solitude.  It keeps me from getting hurt because I can select those for whom I'm willing to sweep aside the detritus enough to carve them a niche.  Shouldn't I be able to offer them better?  Shouldn't I be able to offer myself better?

For a while now I've felt that my aversion to cleaning has been a HUGE part of what's keeping me single, that the Lord's waiting for me to very literally sort myself out before bringing my husband into my life.  So why not get moving on it?  Stasis.  Inertia.  Fear.  A disproportionate feeling of responsibility for the happiness/socialization of two particular friends that I allow to suck me into thinking I need to be available for them way more often than I really do.  And I'm addicted to the internet.

I have lost so much interest in life.  I am becoming Depressed with a capital D.  I need to get off this stupid box for a while.