Family, We Have a Problem

This is sewius.

We have a problem.

Mingling with the mixed up feelings of my two older girls moving out weeks ago was a tinge of decorating excitement.  Three new rooms to fix up.  A remix, make old stuff new again. 

 It's in my blood, y'all.  This decorating desire. 

I talked about it here.

Now I can't do it.  I can't muster any muster.

The room which will become the guest room has gotten this far.

That's not far, y'all.

Yellow's not my color, but my Delia loves it and this was her room.  I think about paint and my mind drifts to bows and ribbons and dancing to Barney songs.  Spirals and sharing the kitchen.

I stand at the door and can't even hang a picture.  The other two rooms are the same.

This is sewius.

I wouldn't call it sadness, it's more like my mind being bogged down with memories that won't let me concentrate.  Won't let me see color and pattern and shape because they won't leave me alone.  They haunt.

Craziness like - If I paint, will they not come? (name that movie - sorta.)

It might not rank up there with the world's political or health issues, but it's clouding my brain with madness.  I try to shut the doors, but I hate shut doors - only slightly less than I hate unfinished rooms.

I shut them, I open them.  I shut them, I open them.  I shut . . . Somebody stop me.

These strings are tied seven minutes down the road and they are slowly tightening and cutting off my circulation.  I must cut them.  I must cut them.  I must.

Okay, maybe unraveling them a bit will do.  I should take it slow.   Just enough to pick out paint.  That's all I ask.

Just a pail of paint - or a pail of prozac.  I guess either will do.