As I mentioned in a previous SharePost, I tend to collect paper into piles. I wish it was just paper that ended up that way, but unfortunately, that’s not the case. Let’s take a tour of the house I share with my son and husband.
Living room – there’s a pile behind my desk chair. I’m not sure what it is. I think it’s a combination of books I’ve had to look at recently and my son’s drawings. I can’t decide what to do with the drawings. They’re the ones he does in afterschool daycare, and since no one helps him like they did in preschool, these are not anything special. Of course, they’re special because he does them, but are they worth keeping? Since I can’t decide what to do with them, they accumulate.
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Before my own depression was diagnosed, I dated a man who suffered from clinical depression and alcoholism. Of course, I wasn’t aware of this when I started dating him, or I never would have started. I don’t have a burning need to “fix” people. A couple of months after I started treatment for my depression, we split up. Although I think it was more or less mutual, I would not have stayed around for long in any case. I had gotten tired of trying to talk him into getting help for his depression. He had kept the alcoholism at bay by quitting drinking cold turkey, but the underlying problem, the depression, was still there. For some reason, he was dead set against any kind of treatment for his depression. He had had therapy when he was in his teens, and apparently it had done more harm than good.
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I’m reading “Green Eggs and Ham” to my son Lawrence before bed. Actually, he’s reading it to me, which is very exciting. He’s doing really well. I only have to help him with about one word out of ten. I read way ahead of my level when I was his age, and it seems that he’s going to be just as good.
The thing I’m noticing, though, is that while he’s reading, he’s wiggling around on the bed, almost falling off sometimes, although his eyes are fixed on the book. Come to think of it, he does this when we’re going over flash cards at the dining table, wiggling around on the chair. He also, which I’ve never seen in another kid, jumps up and down in place when he’s playing a video game, usually when he’s at a part that’s particularly difficult.
It dawns on me that this is probably why his kindergarten teacher told us about bodily-kinesthetic intelligence when we were discussing Lawrence’s problems sitting still in class.
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I’m looking at my desk at work, trying to figure out what to do with this sea of paper that is covering every one of the three counters that make up my cube in the Office of the Registrar at UC Berkeley. I have a pretty large cube, and as usual the paper has expanded to fill the space allotted to it. Through the day, I’ll scratch out a little space on a counter for eating or doing work. It’s definitely not an ideal situation, and let’s face it, it’s of my own making.
One of my co-workers has an unbelievably organized desk. I’m not sure where everything goes. She doesn’t have any more file drawers than I do, and she actually has fewer file folders than I do. I envy her, I really do. I wish I knew how she did it.
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