When things get quiet inside, when I’m really tired or I’ve experienced trauma, I clean the house. Every nook and cranny. Hours, days, sometimes weeks.
I rearrange my bedroom, the living room, pretty much every piece of art on the walls. A best friend does this too, so thankfully I’m not the only one.
My therapist calls it “reclaiming the space.” That seems true.
Somehow it seems best to check out of my phone. To say or write less. Sometimes saying nothing is its own reply. A simple thumbs up seems like a valid choice.
Today, I’m tired of explaining. Even tired of informing. Especially through a phone and text.
I’ve crawled into the sanctuary that is my bedroom. I’m reassessing friendships and where, and with whom, I’m sharing my energy.
I’ll leave this post with these paragraphs. I really have nothing left to report as I scratch my head and go back to observing someone else’s stories.
Eventually the art in me will surface again. Maybe cleaning and rearranging is it’s own form of art. And this is just a journal entry to say, “hey, I’m still here too.”
If you’re still here… feel free to comment as you please. What do you do when things get quiet inside?
Signed,
Steph Bird
Birdanity 
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