Why Am I Like This? And Other Questions I Ask Myself Daily
The Background
We moved into this house in our hometown three months ago. I knew from the beginning that it would be a challenge.
It’s small by current American entitled capitalist standards (1,500 sf - just under my personal sweet spot of 1,600)
My grown (AMAZING) daughter is sharing the house with us because, well, who can afford ANYTHING these days?
I’m weird. I know, you already know that
Anymatter, we have separate living rooms, so that’s wonderful. They’re both small and cozy which contributes greatly to my comfort level, although it might be less desirable to others. The 1-1/2 baths isn’t an issue because, let’s be real, you shower and poop there. I’m unsure of the obsession with luxurious spacious bathrooms, but I won’t judge. There’s a dining room (tiny) that I am still, for whatever reason, unable to sacrifice. Probably due to the PERFECT table we bought for our last Memphis house 6 years ago that has been used for actual dining MAYBE a dozen times. I’ve moved beyond analyzing that situation. We each have a bedroom, of course, leaving one room. The shared office/craft/music/workout room. And by shared, I mean I share it with Bud.
The Problem Room
I’m sure you’ve figured it out already, the shared space. Not that I’m incapable of sharing, I’ve just got a lot of stuff. Craft stuff. Painting stuff. Sewing stuff. Work stuff. But so does David (aka Bud). Stuff that gets on my nerves and stuff that is nonsensical. More on that another day.
Now, before you start bashing me, I know! None of his stuff is nonsensical because it’s stuff that’s important to him. There are things that have just as much meaning to him as my 5lb bag of loose thread and miniscule shreds of fabric mean to me. Don’t come at me. We’ll treat this as a learning situation re: my personality. I’m very easily annoyed, but also very self-aware, rationally irrational, sarcastically (and sometimes mean without really meaning to be mean) playful. I’m also very particular about spaces. I’m sure there’s a word or a diagnosis for it that I haven’t discovered, and it’s very hard to explain, but if I’m not 100% comfortable in an environment (physically, spiritually, emotionally, mentally, all the ly’s) I can’t function for any length of time. At least not well.
The Background
When we first moved in, the logical solution was to split the room in half using my makeshift desk (aka folding table - I gave my nice desk to my son, Max, for a multitude of reasons). I made it work for a few minutes, but after a couple of months I noticed that around 85% of my computer work time was spent in the living room. Why? Well, I’ll tell you why:
The back of my chair kept knocking the pictures off the wall
I was facing all of Bud’s stuff (guitars, posters, workout equipment) and found it uninspiring
That’s it. That’s the list.
I know it’s dumb, but dang it, that’s just how I’m wired. And how I operate. I get something in my head about the way things are supposed to be, and I double down on it until I decide that I was wrong. Ahem, until I decide I have a better idea.
Queue the Move (and the post inspiration)
So, one day a week or so ago when I was working (in the living room, of course) and couldn’t stand to sit there one more minute, I decided I’m going to move the room around. This is who I am as a person. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about the tree I decided to cut down using only a pole saw, a discarded garden hose, and the back of David’s head. That was fun. I digress.
I proceeded to remove the heavy stuff from the desk/folding table, foolishly thinking I could simply whisk it 90-degrees into its new spot.
The Result
A - don’t ask about all the TP and paper towel rolls. You know I craft. Rude.
2 - no, I did not consider the crappy printer and not-so-crappy monitor heavy. Innocent oversight.
The Mistakes That Were Made (and things I truly can’t control)
Clearly, numerous mistakes were made in this endeavor to create a more open, airy, and inviting workspace.
So, first mistake: I did not check the legs on the folding table before I attempted to gracefully pivot it into its new glamorous spot. You’d think after decades of living in this body I’d have learned that gravity + bad decisions = chaos, but alas, no. I went full “let’s just try it and see what happens” mode, which, if I’m being honest, is basically my entire personality.
This is the same energy that convinces me, at least once a year, that I can rewire a lamp, bake bread without measuring, or cut down a tree using the power of sheer stubbornness. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes it results in a folding table leg buckling mid-swoosh, me shrieking like a banshee, and Bud hitting me with that face. You know the one. Equal parts “Are you okay?” and “Why are you like this?”
And here’s the kicker: half of it isn’t even my fault. I mean, yes, I could have checked the legs, but spatial awareness has never been my strong suit. I have dyspraxia—translation: my brain and my body are not always on speaking terms. I can (and frequently do) trip over air. I can misjudge a doorway by three inches and take myself out like a linebacker. So, when I say “I didn’t realize the printer was heavy” or “I thought the desk could just shimmy into place,” you have to understand—it’s not ignorance, it’s wiring.
I should probably also mention that I’m a kinesthetic learner, which is the nice way of saying I don’t really “get it” until I’ve physically done it (and occasionally-nay, again frequently, broken it in the process). You can explain something to me ten different ways, draw me a diagram, even make me watch a video—but until my hands have wrestled it, dropped it, or dragged it across the room, my brain refuses to file it under “knowledge.” So naturally, I don’t see potential disasters in advance. I just… live them. Boldly. Loudly. With questionable grace.
Other Questions I Ask Myself Daily
Why do I own 37 notebooks when I only write in 2 of them?
Why do I keep buying houseplants when I know they’re signing up for hospice care the moment I walk out of the nursery?
Why do I rearrange furniture like it’s a competitive sport but forget where I put my keys daily?
Why do I feel like a genius at 8 AM and a potato at 2 PM?
The Moral (Sort Of)
If there’s a lesson here, it’s probably “check the table legs before you move the desk.” But honestly? I’ll forget by next week. The truth is, living like this is equal parts disaster and delight. It’s frustrating and funny and exhausting and very, very me.
And sometimes, “why am I like this?” is the wrong question. The better one might be: what do I do with a brain that works this way? Which is exactly where we’re headed in the next post—when I talk about what happens when my brain gets stuck in one track and refuses to let go. (Spoiler: it involves Amazon publishing, keywords, and podcast avoidance.)
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About the Author
Gal is an autistic artist, late-diagnosed at 49, and the creator of AuRTistic Expressions—a space where neurodivergent truth meets creative survival. Through blog posts, printables, courses, and the “This Might Get Messy” podcast, Gal explores what it means to unmask safely, communicate authentically, and make art that doesn’t ask for permission. Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.
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Cover Photo by Mika Baumeister on Unsplash
