There's a song from the musical My Fair Lady that's been stuck in my head for the last few days. Eliza, a flower seller from the streets, now dolled up, taught to speak proper English and passing for high society is being romantically perused by a young society boy. She's sick of his flowery promises and poetry and demands, "don't talk of stars, burning above / if you're in love, show me!"
About a month before I moved back home, I visited for a few days to interview for the summer job I ended up getting, which sealed the deal on my plans to return. My mom and I had a rare heart to heart talk. She told me how she didn't feel like a whole person anymore. She lamented that she had nobody to hike with. She admitted that she would like to do more creative things but she didn't have the space to do them. She also whined that she didn't have the money for supplies, but I assured her that she already had far more supplies that she remembered, they were just buried - and that's a fact.
This conversation gave me so much hope. I kept going back to it as I packed my own apartment up and mentally prepared myself for the task of working on the house with my mom. I thought of "reward" projects we could do together. She has an old bedroom set stashed in the garage that she rubs a piece of sandpaper across once every few years and says she's refinishing. I though we could work on this together (I've actually re-finished many pieces of furniture in my line of work) and then move it in to her freshly cleaned bedroom. I pinned projects to do with the mountain of saved coffee cans in the kitchen. I envisioned mornings of hard work, followed by afternoon hikes, after which we'd come home and cook together and eat at the cleaned dining room table. I was excited not just to help her get her life together, but also to help our relationship grow. She's always said what a creative person she was before me (sometimes implying, sometimes straight up saying it's my fault that she gave up on her own creative pursuits), but the problem of her hoarding is so big and prominent, that I've never seen those sides of her. I was excited about the possibility of getting her back to solid footing so that I could see her as a whole person, not just a person struggling with a major mental issue. And, of course, I thought that would be good for her.
How naive was I? She doesn't want to actually sew with the fabric she brings home. She doesn't want to make the lanterns she's saved the mountain of coffee cans for. She doesn't even want to escape the house and go for a walk, let alone a hike. She wants to sit on her ass in front of the TV and waste her life on trashy programming, while making those around her miserable. I know this, because this is what she actually does. If you really want more out of your life, and someone is offering to help you get it, then you take that offer. She's just a lot of talk.
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