Writing Therapy and Ceilings

Writing is a form of therapy for me. It’s one of the big ways I deal with stress. This was from a couple days ago.

There are days when you just want to bang your head against a wall. Or a ceiling in this case. I was going about my business this morning, taking kids to school, feeding breakfast to the little boys who are now my sole companions during the day, washing dishes, starting laundry, trying to clean up at least the downstairs of my house (we’ll save upstairs for tomorrow) and I walk into my bedroom to put something away and I see this. (Ignore the unmade bed and the apple that some child apparently deposited there as well.)

ceiling

 

My ceiling collapsed. In my bedroom. Randomly. Yes there was a crack in the sheetrock, but nothing that called for this!

Our bedroom is actually, technically, a sun room. It does not have a closet (one day my husband will build me a closet, when all the stars line up perfectly) and so I bought one of those freestanding clothes racks, put it in the corner of my room, and that was my closet. You’ll notice, from the picture, that the ceiling collapsed on my closet. It also collapsed on my dresser. Not Andy’s dresser. My dresser. And of course, I was in a hurry this morning, and was getting dressed in the dark and so I left half of my dresser drawers open. And it collapsed on my bed. You of course didn’t know this, but the ceiling collapsed on MY side of the bed. Not Andy’s. I’m feeling just a little bit picked on by whatever randomness caused this to happen.

Andy came home early from work to try and fix it, but two and half hours later, nothing has happened yet. I asked Andy what the plan was and he said the little kids invited him to sleep upstairs with them. Hmmm.

This is of course also the day that my son informed me that his pet ferrets had fleas and I have been trying to tackle the momentous task of de-flea-ing ferrets, and then de-flea-ing their bedroom. All of this involves laundry.

Now that I think about it, maybe it’s not as random as I thought. My room is in desperate need of paint and some kind of organized scheme that will properly house all of our belongings. I am not good at home-remodeling-type projects, but two days ago I was sitting in my chair staring at the walls of my bedroom and I decided. I’m just going to do it. I’m just going to go out and buy paint on my own. I’m just going to paint these walls without waiting for Andy’s superior skills to become available (his current to-do list is already a mile long). And then I looked around a bit closer. There was one space where the ceiling met the wall and there was a large crack. Andy had said that it just needed a piece of crown molding to go over it. Could I put up crown molding? Maybe…not. The ceiling had a big crack in it and I knew it was going to have to be repaired eventually and did it really make sense to paint the walls when the ceiling was going to have be repaired first and that big crack taken care of. Maybe I shouldn’t try to paint after all. (Did I mention that this house is over 100 years old and is only half-remodeled?) And so, I talked myself out of it. Now, two days later, ceiling laying on the floor, I’m starting to think…Maybe it’s a sign?? My ceiling is about to get repaired, how hard would it be for Andy to slap on a piece of trim to take care of the crack and then I’d be home-free to start painting!  

And now you can see how writing is therapeutic. I have just written myself out of a bad mood.

P.S. Not only did I get my ceiling fixed, but my dear husband put up crown molding and he’s talking about picking out paint… Hurray for collapsed ceilings!

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