Life continues amidst the shambollic wreckage

I'm still here. Been very busy, so haven't had time to blog.

I was speaking to a friend (who has visited my home) recently. She was telling me how her other friend (who also has squalor) recently decided to move house to escape her mess. My friend reported how lovely her mate's new home is and how she had told her not to mess it up. No good telling us though.

As a side bar, this other person with squalor didn't get anything packed or sorted right up to the arrival of the movers. No wonder her new home is great, she probably left her life behind at her old address for someone else to work through.

Moving is an option I consider from time to time. But then you still have to throw out and sort out. I don't know why I can't do it. I want to do it. I try to do it. I get overwhelmed by it and stop, usually at the point where it's all become much worse rather than better because I'm only half way through the process - everything has been dragged out of hiding but nothing has gone to the bin. Then I just get more depressed and feel so much more shitty about myself (themes of self harm going on there, of course, as is uncomfortably routine for me).