cleaning is cathartic

anonymous asked:

(Sorry to annoy you!) So, I've lived with my parents for 24 years. However, they're moving overseas tomorrow and leaving me with their house. The thing is, I'm terribly close to them and my little brother, and this whole situation has brought me to a depressive mess. The house that's full of laughter is going to be quiet and lonely and I just can't deal with it all. I know I need to grow up and live my own life, but this is too much for me. I don't know what to do. :(

No bother at all! This is what I’m here for.

I’m sorry that you’re going through this, but I promise it will get easier as time goes along. Let’s start with your family- years ago you would’ve relied on telegrams and long-distance phone calls to see your family. But nowadays, there are so many ways to stay connected with the ones you love. You can Skype or Facetime, instant message, group chat, even sync your Netflix accounts to watch shows together. 

Use this technology to stay in touch! Skype your little brother every day if you need to. A true connection is what brings people together, distance does not matter. I never see some of my best friends, but we text all day every day and stay close.

I’m also going to recommend that you get a couple of pets. A couple cats, a dog, a bird, etc. Fill your house with plants- flowers, tomato plants, crawling vines, etc. Buy yourself beautiful things and hang them everywhere, fill your pantry with delicious food, and invite your friends/family over for a house warming party.

Keep busy- join a knitting circle, start a Dungeons and Dragons league, volunteer at an animal shelter. Leave the radio on so the house is never silent. Learn how to bake pies and invite your friends over for pie tasting parties. Start gardening, I know it’s getting cold, but you can probably clean a few weeds up anyway. Cleaning is so cathartic, it will make you feel amazing. Use bath bombs and give yourself a spa day. Light incense and make your house smell like a fucking apple pie.

Trying living on your own for a while, to see how you do. If you find that you absolutely can’t live alone, you may want to look into renting out a room to a college student. Get in touch with local colleges and work with them to ensure that you don’t rent to a homicidal maniac. 

Please stay in touch friend, even if it’s just occasionally, to let me know how you’re doing. Lots of love xx

There’s also the argument ‘Books are supposed to challenge you!’ which is an interesting argument, but I don’t actually like it very much. Most of my books aren’t actually supposed to challenge you, they’re supposed to comfort you because life is a hard country and we all need a little kindness along the way. (It is totally fine if other people’s books are supposed to challenge you, just…err…#NotAllBooks or something.) I do not actually feel bad about this, because I think comfort is hard to do and generally worthwhile.
—  Ursula Vernon, and as if speaking directly to me
LONGING.
 it’s 1938. you watch his tongue curl against the inside of his cheek, pencil held between fingers that are barely more than bone, eyelashes dark and full against pink cheeks, pale throat, delicate collarbones- “Bucky,” he says. “What’s wrong?” you turn away.
RUSTED.
it’s 2015. you force yourself off your mattress and feel your joints pop in protest, your bones shift uncomfortably under your skin, bruises tender, your mind rotting from the inside out. you look down at your left arm, trace your flesh and blood fingers over the angry scars that bind it to your aching body. there is only one part of you that will live on after you are gone. tarnished by the weather, perhaps, but only to separate from you when your guts are soil in the earth.
SEVENTEEN.
it’s 1937. you hold his inhaler in your shaking fingers on the steps outside of the high school and press it against his lips and you can’t lose him you can’t you can’t-
DAYBREAK.
they sit you down in a chair. it’s 2014. you can see the sun melting bright yellow and pink in the morning sky through the window, spilling warmly over the clouds. “You didn’t know him,” they say. “He’s nobody.” you shift in the uncomfortable chair. the sun is rising above the tree line, shining through the cracks. “Understand?” you’re not sure, but you nod anyways.
FURNACE.
“you’re so warm, Buck,” he laughs, pleased, tucked under your arm (where he should always be, you think). “you’re like my own personal furnace.” it’s 1939. you kiss the top of his head, slide your palm over his skinny belly. you don’t make enough money at the docks to take him to the hospital if he catches pneumonia, so you won’t let him catch it. no matter what it takes. you don’t care how long you have to keep him warm.
NINE.
it’s 1974. you missed their target. fumbled with the gun at the last second and it was too late. they cut you open in nine different places, but not enough to kill you- just enough for you to learn. and you did. you’ve never hurt like this before. not that you can remember. 
BENIGN.
you don’t know much about cancer but you know there are bad tumors and tumors that can’t hurt you, and Sarah Rogers has the bad kind. the kind you really don’t want to have. you hold him against your chest and let him cry into your shirt, grip your jacket with his fists and scream and sob and curse the world. your heart is in your stomach and you don’t ever want to make him let go.
HOMECOMING.
you say his name and it feels like nothing has been right until this moment even though you taste blood in your mouth and your knuckles are bruised, cut up and stinging something awful. this cold, warehouse floor feels like heaven. and. you remember what he feels like. what he sounds like. for the first time in 70 years, you do. something chokes up in your throat. “which Bucky am I talking to?” he asks. you smile.
ONE.
it’s 1940. he’s throwing the pots and silverware into the sink so hard they’re probably going to break. you only have one set. “and I hope you had fun with Jane tonight,” he’s yelling, spitfire, turning around to face you, and you want to kiss him so bad right now despite how angry he would be if you did. “but next time you’re gonna be out having a time with some dame until 11 o'clock, let me know so I don’t make dinner for no reason.” he’s leaning against the worn counter, his skinny chest heaving, puffed out defensively. he looks like he doesn’t know what else to say so you go towards him, pull him against you despite his resistance, coax his fingers from white-knuckling the counter. “I wasn’t with Jane,” you say, voice low enough to cool him down. “I had to work late.” his shoulders sag, his muscles relaxing in the circle of your arms. “Oh,” he sniffles. you’re so tired and your feet are sore and blistered but you say, “Dance with me, babydoll.” because this is all that matters. and with your hands around his waist, in the middle of your shotgun-shack apartment, you say, “you’re the only one I need. Not some gal.” he exhales against the soft of your throat. you say, “I love you.”
FREIGHT CAR.
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, your chin on his shoulder, his back pressed against your chest on the porch. it’s 2016. you put out your cigarette. “why, honey?” he doesn’t talk for a while and worry creeps into your veins like poison, so you turn him around, and he’s crying. your stomach flips. “God, it kills me every day,” he sniffles, laughing a little. “it’s so stupid but- I could’ve grabbed you. I should have tried harder to grab your hand but I was slipping and it’s my fault that you fell, Bucky-” something grips your heart like a vice, burns red-hot through your nerves. “don’t,” you say, ice cold. “don’t you ever say that to me, Steve. you hear me? i don’t ever wanna hear that from you.” and you’re crying for the first time in years and you feel like you can finally breathe clean air again, cathartic. “You’re right,” he whispers, kissing your cheeks, your knuckles, your throat. “You’re right, and I’ll never say it again, I promise.” it’s raining but you’re protected by the overhang of the roof over the porch and the way your fingers swell up with the humidity makes you feel human again. he fits his hand around your jaw, kisses you firm on the mouth. “it’s my turn to take care of you,” he says.
—  HE IS YOUR PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE; e/j