Redecorating from the outside in

I didn’t mean to do it.

I didn’t intend to carry it so far.

I just wanted a taste. Just a tiny boost. Nothing extreme.

But a taste wasn’t enough. It led to another, and another. I felt myself falling into the deep chasm of obsession. Before I knew it, I was full-on in the madness.

Before I knew it, I had … I had … completely redecorated my living room.

Now, I don’t mean to make light of addiction. True physical and psychological addition — to drugs, alcohol, food, sex — is blinding, brutal and ravaging, and it does not discriminate.

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I’m no stranger to the real deal. I’ve been up close and personal with the face of addiction on many occasions (both my own and others close to me), and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, even certain politicians.

I am not by any means saying that my obsession with a recent interior design project is comparable to a debilitating disease. But, my summer decorating frenzy certainly proved to be a good reminder of the dangers of my own addictive behavior, and it offered me a chance to engage in some much-needed reflection and recalibration.

Fortunately, I’ve had the worst of my addiction demons locked up for many years now, but they are always lurking in the proverbial mental vault, ready to bust out if I don’t check the locks periodically. Without regular maintenance, those sneaky devils are bound to find a crack in the door eventually.

See, for me, if it feels good, tastes good, smells good or looks good, I can obsess about it and ultimately overindulge to the point of catastrophic harm — to myself or others.

To this day, I crave the fleeting rush that comes from alcohol, shopping, double-fudge cupcakes — whatever sexy beast is in front of me at the moment I’m feeling vulnerable. If I am mentally and spiritually fit, those cravings subside. When I am really kicking ass in recovery, they disappear altogether.

The aforementioned rush, evil mind fuck that it is, allows me to escape (albeit briefly) from the stuff in my life that actually needs to be addressed.

Most recently, a new escape from reality presented itself in the form of an alluring color palette that compelled me to buy and coordinate a bunch of new shit for my living space. Part of it was inspired by a gnawing urge to erase the final traces of wreckage left behind by my ex-husband’s drug relapse four years ago. But more on that in a moment.

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Mostly, I wanted to move the focus away from the guilt I was feeling over everything I was NOT doing in terms of self-care, and concentrate instead on my external environment, which I felt I could more easily control. Yeah, cuz that always works, right?

Anyway. I felt the first tickle of tentacles from the redecorating bug in the home goods section of TJ Maxx one fateful Saturday in June.

I have no memory of how I ended up all the way back in the corner of the store. I didn’t even know I needed it until it was right in front of me. I got caught in its powerful Spaceballs-esque tractor beam. Really.

“It” was a table lamp, and its glass orb base held what I believed was my salvation. Melodrama, I know, but the struggle was real, people.

I thought to myself, “I can’t afford a new car, replacement windows or a new fence today, but I can afford a $35 lamp. It will make me feel good to buy it. Feel successful. Feel like I’m making a positive change, which I really need right now.”

So I bought it. Plus a Kate Spade purse that was on sale. Because, you know, accessories are a girl's best friend. But I digress.

Once my lamp of deliverance was properly perched on my living room end table, replacing a hand-me-down monstrosity I never liked, I took a look around me.

Damn near every stick of furniture surrounding this new, elegant accoutrement was second-hand, inherited (i.e., not my choice) or shabby, or all three.

So, I thought, “A new coffee table can’t be that expensive, right?” I headed straight to Pier 1 Imports, where I found a clearance floor model that was P.E.R.F.E.C.T.

When I took a photo of the new lamp and coffee table to post on social media, I couldn’t get my badly faded couch out of the shot. The cushions had been ruined by my ex — the last year of our relationship, he spent (literally) all of his time there. I look back now and wonder how either of us made it out alive. Not kidding.

The poison of that memory had been burned deep into the creases of the leather, not to mention my brain. So, I said, out loud, “Fuck this. I shall buy a new couch and get that mental garbage out of my head, and my house, once and for all.”

It was balls to the wall after that. Couch, rugs, tables, throw pillows — even coasters.

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And then, when I couldn’t find a certain accent table I wanted, I bought an unfinished one and painted it. In the process, I discovered the joy and ease of chalk painting, and quickly became addicted to that, too. No lie, I walked around my house at one point, yelling, “OK, WHAT ELSE NEEDS A COAT OF THIS HERE PAINT??"

Ahem. In addition to the initial table, I have painted and re-covered two benches, with plans to do another table soon.

What’s craziest about this whole process is the urgency with which I felt I had to do it. Like, actual anxiety bubbled in my chest as I thought about what I could do/buy next, and how fast I could get it into my house. Waiting for my couch to be delivered and the first coat of Annie Sloan Provence to dry was a special brand of agony. I WANTED IT ALL NOW.

That right there is the definition of addictive behavior. Holla. At least I can see it today. Progress, not perfection.

Additive tendencies aside, my redecorating project is a rousing success.

I truly have a beautiful, comfortable living room that embodies my style and tastes from tip to tail. I’m happy with the result, and it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling when I sit down to relax in it at the end of a long day.

But here’s the thing. The initial “high” is waning, and while my outer world looks different, I’m sitting here on my brand new couch, exactly the same person I was before being struck dumb by a cheap lamp. Turns out I still have to live with myself, no matter what my surroundings.

Here is what I know: It’s so much easier to alter my environment than deal with whatever bullshit is going on in my crazy head. It’s easier to focus outward and embrace a temporary, quick fix.

Fortunately, I recognize this pattern of behavior and can head it off before it delves too far into destruction.

For example, I only bought what I could afford for the new digs. I paid cash for everything. The old me, before 12-step recovery, would have paid top dollar, regardless of whether it was in my budget, and put it on a credit card. (I understand how hoarders become hoarders. A shopping high is no joke.)

I knew from the jump that I damn sure didn’t want to be buried under a new mountain of debt when it was all over. I am proud to say I stayed well within my means and made no living room-related decisions on impulse, except for the lamp.

Unlike my binge shopping sprees of the past, this latest project wasn’t simply an exercise in the accumulation of expensive crap. I can see now that it served as the beginning of a transformation — the first step in a revitalization effort I have been putting off all year. At least, that’s how I’m choosing to look at it.

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Sitting on my new couch amongst new turquoise pillows, with a glass of tea sweating on a new coaster on a new table at my side, I am forced to admit that while my cosmetic renovation efforts made me feel better for a hot minute, it’s time go deeper. Like looking at why, oh I don’t know, I've stopped giving much of a damn about my health.

So here goes: I’m using the huge jump in my summer workload as an excuse to sit on my ass and put garbage in my body. I haven’t been inside a gym since May, and I choose chocolate over carrots every time I visit the grocery store. Not surprisingly, I feel crappy most of the time as a result. Lazy, tired, fat. All those fun things.

In short, I need to stop allowing guilt to paralyze me and get off my ass. (Hell, I've been so paralyzed by guilt and an irrational fear of failure that I haven't blogged in three months. You might not see the connection, but I sure do.)

To that end, I spoke with a nutrition consultant and purchased a month of classes for a new Barre studio just last week. I’m also gearing up to kick another bad habit that I am too ashamed to admit out loud. Baby steps.

It’s time to leave the safety of my snazzy new living room and take on a different kind of renovation, the kind that will bring permanent results. Welcome to “Internal living space revitalization 2016 — the odyssey.” Or something.

Off I go to make my inner world a better, happier place. I can’t promise I won’t break down and chalk paint something else, though. I mean, it is ME we're talking about, right?

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