A Disorganized Mind

Frustration. Aggravation. These last two or three days have been some of the most frustrating of my life. Being disorganized (as opposed to unorganized) is nothing new for me. But some days it seems as if I don’t have a mind at all. I think I have done something and find out I didn’t.  Unorganized is a total lack of organization. Disorganized is haphazard organizing.

We received some important documents in the mail. Living in a cramped space with a houseguest limits my accessability to some of my storage space. It isn’t her fault; we are delighted to have her with us. She has been a HUGE blessing. The problem is not with our guest: it’s me. The point is, I have fallen back into my habit of just laying things hither and yon, intending to put them away when I have more time. Right. Like time is just going to present itself to me and say, “Here I am.” No, I have to determine a time to do what needs to be done.

I could play the blame game. I was raised by a disorganized mom. Children learn what they live. Yeah, I get that, but I’m almost sixty-six years old, so I am definitely old enough to have learned some organizational skills along the way. But I have always accepted myself this way and most of the time it isn’t a huge problem. Eventually serendipity surprises me and I find something I was searching for a long time ago while looking for something else. Eureka! I found it, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. Oh, well, it will turn up eventually. It would be great if I could always have that outlook.

My brain plays tricks on me. My husband laid some mail on the table and instructed me not to move it. I didn’t. Well, I have absolutely zero recollection that I did, but he was looking for the documents this morning and they were not on the table. We looked high and low. I knew I had not moved them. Nevertheless, I stopped what I was doing (working on the re-write of my first novel) to look for said documents. I found them in a pile of things I had removed from the other end of the table. There is only one way they could have ended up in that pile. But I do not remember moving them, picking them up, or even touching them.

Today I feel as if I’m about as useless as a screen door on a submarine, to quote a phrase from a song by the same title and sung by Rich Mullins. (Rich died in a tragic car accident several years ago.)

I dropped what I was doing with my novel, searched and found said papers, beat myself up emotionally, and decided to write about it here. Maybe it will help someone else like me to know they are not alone, and to accept those things that they cannot change. I did go through two storage bins and organize them and throw some stuff away. I will take one day a week and try to organize two storage bins that day. Maybe, eventually, I will have an organized life–if I can trust my brain to be honest about what I have done with everything.