So, “fighting the darkness,” huh? Sounds dramatic. For me, it wasn’t some epic battle with a mythical beast. It was, well, it was my damn garage. Yeah, you heard me. My garage had become this black hole of forgotten projects, junk, and just… despair, I guess. It got so bad I’d just toss things in and slam the door shut, like if I didn’t see it, the mess wasn’t real.
This all started a while back. I’d gone through a rough patch, you know? Lost a bit of my spark, and that garage, it just became a monument to feeling stuck. Every time I even thought about tackling it, I’d get this wave of “ugh, where do I even begin?” It was overwhelming. Pure darkness, in its own mundane way.
The Tipping Point
Then one Saturday, I needed a screwdriver. A specific one. And I knew it was in there. Somewhere. After about twenty minutes of tripping over boxes and muttering curses, I just snapped. I stood there, covered in dust, holding a broken garden gnome, and thought, “Enough. This ends.” That was it. No grand plan, just a sudden, stubborn refusal to let that pile of junk win another day.
My “Practice” – If You Can Call It That
So, what did I do? My big “practice” for fighting this particular darkness? It wasn’t pretty, and it sure wasn’t quick. Here’s how it went down, bit by bit:
- First, I just stood there. Sounds dumb, right? But I really looked at it. I let the sheer awfulness of it sink in. No more pretending.
- Then, I grabbed one thing. Just one. An old, deflated basketball. I walked it to the trash can. That was Day One’s victory. Pathetic, I know, but it was a start.
- The next day, I aimed for a corner. I told myself, “Just this one corner. Clear this one tiny space.” I didn’t think about the whole garage, just that little square foot by square foot. I dragged out a broken chair. I sorted a pile of old newspapers for recycling. It took an hour. My back ached.
- I made a rule: fifteen minutes. Every day. Even if I didn’t want to. Some days, that fifteen minutes felt like an eternity. I’d just stand there, moving one thing from one pile to another, feeling like a total idiot. Other days, the fifteen minutes would stretch into thirty, then an hour, because I’d actually find a rhythm.
- I got ruthless. That was key. “Have I used this in a year? No? Gone.” “Is this broken beyond repair? Yes? Gone.” I filled trash bag after trash bag. I donated boxes of stuff I’d forgotten I even owned. It was like an archeological dig through my own procrastination.
- I found things. Not just junk. I found old tools I thought were lost. I stumbled upon half-finished projects that actually sparked a little bit of that old enthusiasm. That was a weird feeling, like finding a little piece of my old self buried under all that crap.
Seeing a Little Light
Slowly, and I mean slowly, things started to change. A patch of floor appeared. Then a whole section of workbench. It wasn’t just the garage getting clearer; something in my head felt a bit lighter too. It was like every bag of trash I hauled out was a bit of that heavy, dark feeling leaving with it.
There were days I wanted to quit, believe me. Days I’d open the door, look at the remaining chaos, and just think, “Nope, not today.” But then I’d remember that stupid deflated basketball, and I’d force myself to do just one thing. One box. One shelf.
The “Darkness” Fought, Kinda
It took weeks. Months, actually, if I’m being honest. It’s still not perfect, not showroom condition. But it’s usable. I can find my tools. I can walk through it without fear of an avalanche. More importantly, I don’t dread opening that door anymore.
Looking back, “fighting the darkness” wasn’t about one big heroic charge. It was about showing up, day after day, and doing the small, unglamorous work. It was about chipping away at the overwhelming thing until it wasn’t so overwhelming anymore. And that garage? It taught me that sometimes, the biggest battles are won one tiny, dusty piece at a time. It’s a simple thing, I guess, but it made a hell of a difference to me.
